


Bred From That Bloody Strain

by born_awkward



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass Rey, Canon-Typical Violence, Dominant Kylo Ren, Don't worry - Rey's got this, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, HEA, Idiots in Love, Major character death - Freeform, Reylo Medieval AU, Reylo Silliness, Smut, Virgin Kylo Ren, bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 18:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/born_awkward/pseuds/born_awkward
Summary: A REYLO MEDIEVAL AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I managed to delete an entire chapter when I was editing this early work. It has been tweaked and I apologise if anyone starts reading and realises they already did.

His grandfather’s breathing was shallow and laboured. He hovered over him, wishing to provide succour but realising that only when his grandfather lay once more in the arms of his wife would he be comforted and content. 

In the days up to this point, his grandfather had passed many objects and persons into his care, divesting himself of earthly ties in order to go to his Maker and Padme, the wife he had mourned for the last eight years. 

They had been on campaign together, the Welsh once more proving rebellious, and for the first time he had gone into battle unaccompanied by his grandfather. 

Three thousand men he had commanded, cutting off the Welsh – not letting them disappear into the hills and mountains to fight another day. Many persons of importance had been captured. Some he would ransom, some he would imprison indefinitely, some he hoped to cajole into his service. 

English archers were excellent, but the Welsh archers were beyond anything England could produce. He had captured Dopheld Mitaka, a prince of the line of Llewelyn. If he could persuade him to give him his loyalty the Welsh would flock to his service and there would be relative peace in the Welsh marches. 

He had returned from the field in triumph, to find the malaise which afflicted his grandfather had grown acute – and then became chronic. 

He had conveyed him, according to his wish, to Reading, where Padme lay. His heart sinking deeper with every mile covered as his grandfather’s intention sunk in – Anakin Skywalker intended to die at Reading and be interred beside his wife in the abbey there. 

The thought choked him. He had lived with his grandparents since he’d been weaned practically. Padme had died when he was eight and then he had resided under Anakin’s sole charge. 

He had accompanied his grandfather (since that awful day) on campaign and at whichever residence he held court – sat between his feet on a footstool, listening, observing, being instructed in statecraft and the art of war. 

And now those golden days were coming to an end and the next five years, until his majority at age twenty one, would be the most difficult of his life as he endured the regency of his mother and her brother. 

His grandfather’s breathing changed and he was instantly at his bedside, looking down at him. 

Anakin was awake, eyes bright and colour in his cheeks. He looked at his grandson with lucidity. 

“Boy.” 

“Yes, grandfather.” 

The wasted, pale hand of his grandfather reached out to him, devoid of all rings except one, an ornate gold ring with a baguette cut emerald of great beauty, a gift from Padme to her lover – Anakin Skywalker. 

“Boy, are they here?” 

“Yes, grandfather. They wait outside.” 

Anakin nodded. 

“Prop me up, Boy. Fetch me wine.” 

“Yes, grandfather.” 

He motioned to one of the hovering servants to fetch wine and to another to bring more pillows. They hurried to obey. 

Banked up against his pillows and refreshed from drinking a long draft of wine, Anakin gave the order that those waiting without were to be admitted. 

In came three persons; two teenagers and a young man of twenty. 

The twenty year old was Charles de Melbourne, bodyguard to Anakin Skywalker. 

The oldest teenager, an eighteen year old, was Dopheld Mitaka, prince of Llewelyn, the younger teenager, a sixteen year old, was Finn Neville, Earl of Warwick. 

Anakin regarded them, eyes glittering. 

“You know why you’re sent for?” 

All three nodded. 

He turned his gaze on Charles de Melbourne. 

“Chewie, you are the third de Melbourne to serve me. I ask you now, in front of witnesses, will you willingly transfer your allegiance to my grandson and serve him with all loyalty?” 

Charles de Melbourne, a giant of a man, as tall and as broad as his master, with a leonine mane of hair, nodded and replied in a deep, rumbling voice: 

“Aye, master, I’ll serve the prince in loyalty.” 

Anakin nodded with satisfaction and turned his eyes to the Welshman. 

“What of you, Mitaka, will you join common cause with my grandson and receive my mercy and my love?” 

Mitaka was a short man with the black hair and eyes of his race. His face was round and smooth, cherubic, and deceptive. 

He looked an innocent, as though in constant need of mothering. However, rumour had it if you were female and had a pulse, watch yourself. Mother’s drew their daughters close in his vicinity; wise husbands drew their wives and daughters closer – and their mothers. 

“I get Pembroke, he asked, and all titles and lands due?” 

Anakin’s lips drew back in a wolfish smile, teeth clamped together. 

“Oh, Mitaka, why didn’t my Padme give me a son such as you?” 

“Yes, you will be Prince Dopheld, Earl of Pembroke, and all titles, lands and tithes due, but, Mitaka, when you swear, know this, from that moment you are tied in the bag of life with my grandson. If you fail him or break your vow, I will tear myself from my Padme’s arms and visit such vengeance on you, you will cry out for the peace of the grave.” 

The atmosphere in the room changed, a sudden icy feel to the air, as if something otherworldly had passed through it and laid a hand against Mitaka’s neck and whispered the truth of what had just been spoken into his ear. 

In spite of himself, the Welshman shivered and paused in his speech, but then recovered. 

“There are certain men I want released to me.” 

Anakin looked at him through hooded eyes. 

“If my grandson agrees them and if they are not found to be malignant.” 

Mitaka nodded and swallowed hard – Anakin had pronounced the word ‘malignant’ with menace. 

“Then I’ll take the oath and serve the prince in loyalty. 

Anakin looked upon him with narrowed eyes for a moment or two and then nodded confirmation. 

His eyes turned toward Finn Neville and softened in their expression. 

He stretched out his right hand, adorned with the gold and emerald ring. 

“Come, youngling, take my hand.” 

Finn stepped forward and clasped Anakin’s hand firmly. 

“Your grandfather hated me, would have ended me if he could. Said I was a usurper and not fit to kiss the feet of the man who reigned before me, but your father loved me, and I loved him, and it was for his sake I spared your house.” 

“Three sons he buried before you came into the world of men, and not expected to live more than a few hours from your mother’s womb. We ought to have known when he named you after that old bastard, your grandfather, you’d confound us all.” 

Unable to help himself, Finn grinned at this masterful description of his late grandsire. The old man had protected the late king from infancy, and it was only his absence from court fighting the Scots that had allowed Anakin’s usurpation to succeed. The old man had retreated to his lands and given Anakin nothing but trouble the rest of his days. 

“Tell me, young Finn; are you of your father and grandfather’s heart? If you give your word, will you keep it?” 

Finn looked at Anakin steadily and spoke just as steadily. 

“Yes, sir, I’ll give my word to serve the prince in loyalty. I won’t become the first Neville to break his word once it’s given.” 

Anakin sank back on his pillows satisfied. 

“Draw closer you four.” 

They huddled close to the bed and Anakin lowered his voice. 

“I will have the clerks draw up the necessary charters, and a priest will witness the oaths – which will be sworn on relics and the cross.” 

“Mitaka and Neville, you must return to the safety of your lands. Chewie, you will remain at the prince’s side. They will try to separate you from him and I give you permission to cut down any man who brings you that word. Do not hesitate. Eventually, they’ll desist.” 

“Those two nitwits, my son and daughter, are going to wreck what I have built, but you four must stay your hands until the prince is of age. It won’t be easy to win back power – concentrate on building alliances within the church and parliament meanwhile.” 

He sighed. 

“Sometime I wonder if my Padme played me false when I look at those two. She didn’t, of course, but sometimes I wonder.” 

He trailed off and his eyes closed in sleep. 

The four drew back and consulted. 

“I’ll stay with grandfather and make arrangements for tomorrow, after noon, grandfather is better after the noon hour.” 

The three nodded, each clasping his forearm and bidding him adieu. 

He walked over to where Anakin lay, looking upon him with love and affection. How he would miss him. 

He reached over and carefully removed two pillows so his grandfather’s head did not loll as he slept. Then he went to see the chief clerk to order the necessary charters to be drawn up. 

+++ 

The oaths were administered on the morrow under Anakin’s eyes, which were clear and sharp as a hawk’s. Only then were the seals of Anakin and the prince brought out and the charters sealed and given to the recipients, sealed copies kept for the royal archive. 

Anakin’s seal was then broken and put on the fire so it couldn’t be misused after his death. 

Land had been settled on Chewie, land, titles and tithes on Mitaka, and land long coveted by the Neville’s settled on Finn. 

Mitaka and Finn approached and kissed Anakin's hand, receiving his blessing, then hurrying off with their households to be deep within the bosom of their affinity before Anakin’s death, which looked to be imminent. 

If Leia and/or Luke Skywalker objected to what had been given, they must be prepared to fight to keep it. The precious charters were kept close to their persons. 

Anakin looked very tired when all had been done, but he still wanted speech with his grandson even though he was urged to sleep. 

“I’ll soon sleep well enough” was his terse reply. 

He gazed at his grandson for a long while before he spoke, the reciprocal love and affection showing in his weary eyes. 

At last he spoke. 

“I’m sad to leave you, Boy, but my Padme calls me. Tell me I go without reproach.” 

“Grandfather, you have been nothing but good to me my whole life and I will mourn and miss you every day, but, grandfather, go in peace.” 

“Thank you. You have been my pride and joy all these years. All I wish for you now is your safekeeping and for you to find a good woman to keep you safe, as my Padme did for me.” 

“Mayhap you won’t be as fortunate as I, but if you meet The One, and she is of your degree, marry her on the morrow.” 

He laughed at his grandfather’s turn of thoughts when there was so much else to think about. 

Anakin was holding something out to him – Padme’s ring. 

His eyes flew to those of his grandsire. 

“Grandfather!” 

“Take it. When you find her, give her this; make her your own as Padme did me when she gave me this. You and I, Boy, are of the same heart – we were born to be ruled by a woman.” 

A look of dissatisfaction crossed his face. 

“She didn’t believe me, you know, that I’d marry her, she being older than I. She took me to her bed and bid me live my life with her in that one night. In the morning she gave me this and bid me adieu.” 

He snorted. 

“I gave it back to her and then carried her to my horse and then to a priest – in her shift with my cloak around her.” 

He laughed, “If you’d seen the priest’s face! She gave it back to me as a wedding ring.” 

His face darkened. 

“Of course, then the french king had to go cheapen it. What he called her... “ 

His jaw was working. 

“I showed him, if it hadn’t been for divine intervention... “ 

His voice trailed off and he lay back, exhausted. 

“Grandfather, please.” 

His grandfather’s fingers squeezed his feebly. 

“Take it, Boy, I just need my sword and to be dressed in a simple robe. That’s all I need, and to lie beside my Padme.” 

“It shall be as you wish, Pappy.” 

Another feeble squeeze to his fingers, “Take these pillows away and give me my sword.” 

He called the attendants. 

Before they came bustling up, Anakin had one more thing to say. 

“You will need a different name - to separate you from those two.” 

“I have it Pappy.” 

Anakin opened his eyes one last time. 

“What is it?” 

Kylo Ren.” 

“Ky-lo Ren”, Anakin rolled the syllables around his tongue. 

“It will suffice.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was a November day not of gloomy overcast skies, but rather with a sky bluer than blue and not a cloud in it to besmirch its purity – only the sun which shone ardently on the earth below. 

Kylo Ren was lounging in a patch of this winter sunshine on a wooden settee made hospitable for lounging by its red velvet cushions. However, he was squeezed into a corner of it, his two hounds also found it comfortable for lounging. 

He had half a mind to turf them out, but then they’d go crowd the fire and that was bad for them, so he subsided, pulling at Beru’s ears or scratching behind them. If he stopped she nuzzled his hand insistently. 

“Who is master here?” he scolded, but received a half-hearted thump of her tail in answer and therefore submitted, continuing to caress her. 

Although he looked relaxed and carefree in his lounging, his mind was busy turning over the events of the past seven years and their effect on future events. 

The joint regency of his mother and uncle had been as disastrous as his grandfather had predicted. 

It had taken months of effort to get his mother and uncle to resign the regency and allow him to ascend the throne. He had inherited mismanaged resources and nobility grown contemptuous of the Skywalkers. 

How many times had his grandfather told him to always give the nobility just short of what they wanted? ‘Hawks and hounds hunt better when kept keen, Boy’, had been one of his favourite strictures. 

How was it, then, that his uncle had ignored this core teaching of his own father and followed his own woolly-minded ideas? 

There had been a tremendous row about it, and he had snarled across the council table ‘you are not rewarding them, you are placating them!’ 

As a result, the nobility had grown complacent and greedy. Rather than lying quietly under the table hopeful of their master’s largesse, as obedient hounds should, they had their paws on the table and their snouts in the trough, careless of their master’s reproof. 

Well, he had used the whip on them when he came into his own, rooting out extravagance, cutting or cancelling annuities given because they were demanded and not earned as such things should be. 

Even now, two years into his kingship, he was barely solvent. 

Even worse than his mother and uncle’s mismanagement of the domestic household had been his uncle’s mismanagement of the french king. 

He groaned aloud as he thought of it, his dogs’ heads coming up, gazing intently at him to see what ailed him. He soothed them back into sleep. 

His uncle had believed the friendly overtures of the french king upon Anakin’s death, and as a direct result of his gullibility and incompetence had lost the territory Anakin had secured for his wife in Normandy and Bordeaux. 

One by one he had given back castles which did in fact belong to the french king, but which Anakin had taken and held as bargaining chips to keep Normandy – the hereditary inheritance of his wife, who was its Duchess. 

Luke had given them away, with no thought to their long-term strategic value, in the name of friendship with the french king. 

He then made bad worse by forgiving outstanding debts and unpaid ransoms by the french crown from Anakin’s campaigns – debts recoverable under law, but which Anakin had been content to let stand in order to subdue dissent by demanding their repayment if the french king threatened to break out. 

Eventually the french king had not bothered to dissemble. 

Openly he approached the leading lords of Bordeaux, promising to abolish taxes on wine - Bordeaux’s chief export - if they expelled the English from their territory and declared for him. 

In Normandy he promised that there would be no interference by him in Norman affairs. 

To the Normans autonomy was everything, allowing them to keep their revenues wholly, and indulge their quarrels with each other without accountability to a liege lord. 

This had meant that many of the English/Norman lords who had dual inheritance, had to let go land regained in Normandy by Anakin or relinquish possessions held in England. 

As a result, the nobility who chose to remain in England felt their selves impoverished. 

They had become restless and vocal in their dissent, especially since his reforms, and ready to fight – ready to fight Skywalkers, ready to fight him. 

He had a solution and was awaiting the arrival of Dopheld and Finn to put his proposal to them. 

Without these two, his proposal had no teeth. They had helped him wrest the regency from his mother and uncle’s hands, getting them to accept the loosening of their hold on power. 

Again, he had been assisted by the short-sightedness of his mother and uncle. 

As had been anticipated, they had not accepted the disbursements of land and power given to Chewie, Dopheld and Finn by Anakin on his deathbed, and had sent forces against them. 

As his bodyguard and a lesser recipient, Chewie had been spared, but the charge against Dopheld and Finn had been treason. 

Dopheld had sent what remained of the forces sent against him back to England bootless and bound. 

Finn had returned naked and bound the remnant of those sent against him, with halters around their neck for good measure. 

The land given the Neville’s by Anakin had long been coveted, and his mother and uncle had forgotten a vital lesson when dealing with them – never threaten to take anything from them, not their land, nor their wealth, nor their women. 

The regents had subsequently sued for reconciliation, but it was too late, they had confirmed Anakin’s opinion of them by their action and would never be trusted. 

Then, when his coronation day had been set, his uncle, of course it would be his uncle, had tried to murder him for no better reason that he was too much like Anakin – as if that were a bad thing in these times which needed a strong will and stomach to do what must be done, and an even stronger sword arm. 

His mother had screamed, a sound of terror and anguish, and he had turned, instinctively drawing steel. 

The blade meant to be lodged in his heart had been deflected but caught him across the right side of his face, leaving him with a faint visible scar bisecting eye and cheek. 

Then his hounds were on the move, Beru in particular sounding unhinged in her fury. 

He had had to call them off as his uncle grabbed his mother as shield, the dagger meant for him pressed against her throat drawing blood, his dogs tearing at her gown as they tried to reach their prey. 

Chewie had exploded into the room, but with his mother held hostage he had had to allow his uncle make his escape. 

Had Ren not believed her innocence, her face white with shock and body trembling uncontrollably, it would have gone very badly with her. However, he had chosen to believe her, reckoning her life would have been forfeit had his uncle succeeded in ending him. 

She was now lodged at a convent on Neville land, securely guarded by Neville affinity – it was best for all that she retire from public life. 

Papers found in his uncle’s apartments had shown he was a sympathizer of Lollardy. 

Ren was conventional in his beliefs and not much interested in doctrine or debate, when he took the emblems at communion he had no interest whether they were literal or figurative of Christ’s blood or body. 

However, he could sympathize with the church on certain points. Had anyone demanded that _he_ give up his position and place and live in poverty, he would strongly resist. Moreover, as to appointing more lords as the Lollards wanted, well, he had more than enough of those already. 

Apparently, the church regarded his uncle as a heretic now. If they caught him death by burning was the penalty. 

He graciously gave carte blanche over the matter to the church. They need not trouble him if and when his uncle was found, but may proceed to impose this penalty upon his person without reference to him. 

Of course, if he got his hands on his uncle first... well, his uncle’s demise would be swifter but he would ensure it was painful. 

His dogs raised their heads, listening intently. His own ears strained to hear. 

Ah, there it was, Chewie’s low rumble and one, no two other voices. 

Dopheld and Finn had arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

As Seigneur of Roche-Guyon, second only to Rouen in importance, Poe Dameron had to sift through rumour in order to discern fact. 

Last November, there had been a rumour that the English king had instructed his sheriffs to extract six feathers from each goose in the kingdom and send them to London. 

Following hard on the heels of this rumour had come another one; the English king had given three fletchers an order for three million arrows. 

Of course, it could mean nothing, there again it could mean something. He had ordered an audit of stores and weapons. 

Now, in his hand was a fact – a letter from the Constable of France informing him that the Earl of Warwick had left his lands with a great host and entered the land of the Scots. 

Once there he had caused a great burning - particularly the important ports on the east coast, sinking ships in the harbour mouths, denying safe haven. 

Arms and artillery had been destroyed and many, many horses captured and taken back to the earl’s lands where they had been sold. 

There would be no fear of invasion by the Scots this year, and little likelihood of punitive raids – should the English king not be in his realm. 

The Scots had put up resistance, of course, but the earl had brought archers with him. Short men, dark of hair, with bows taller than they, and a rate of fire so rapid it had overwhelmed troops launched against them. In the end the Scots had stood off and watched the decimation of their land. 

It was known that the earl was as a brother to the English king. 

Make ready, the Constable advised, we think he is coming. 

**He** was Anakin Skywalker’s grandson, Kylo Ren. 

+++ 

He was roused from his reverie by a presence, a delicate floral perfume - his wife, Rey. 

She was regarding him with a slight look of worry and apprehension. 

He smiled at her, and a look of relief passed over her face. 

“My lord, is all well? - _such_ a look on your face. Does the letter bring bad news?” 

“No, no. Well... perhaps.” 

Seeing her puzzled look, he took her hand and led her to a window seat. 

The month was March, and bright sunshine was warming the earth and bringing forth buds and greenery. They sat down together. 

“I have received this letter from d’Albret, he saw her eyes widen in understanding, and I think it’s as well you read it. However, the contents you must keep to yourself. The news it contains will be known in time, but no need to sow apprehension in people’s minds so early.” 

He looked into her eyes, the green and gold in them very evident in the spring sunshine. 

He handed her the letter and sat back as she read slowly through it. 

She was lovely. He could appreciate her beauty on an aesthetic level, though she was not to his personal taste. 

He had married her when she had just turned seventeen. Plutt, Duke of Burgundy, had wanted her for his mistress. Well, he’d wanted her lands in the Loire Valley and would have taken her as his mistress to get them. 

He had been furious with Dameron's impertinence and had then made a counter offer of marriage. Rey had chosen him. 

He would never have gotten away with it under normal circumstances, but the king was enduring one of his bouts of madness and he and the Dauphin had contrived and brought it off. 

She was recovering from the birth of their first child, a most beloved son. He would return to her bed soon, but not just yet. 

She had finished reading and was obviously turning the matter over in her mind. 

“What does this mean for Roche-Guyon?” 

“Well, we will provide shelter for our people and wait it out.” 

Her brows drew together. 

“We do not fight?” 

He paused, giving careful thought to his answer. 

“If we have to, but our principle role is to provide a safe haven for our people. The english king comes not to conquer, it is believed, but to raid and take booty.” 

She looked at him thoughtfully. 

“What manner of man is he that comes as a thief and a robber?” 

Poe searched his mind for the right words. How did one describe a grandson of Anakin Skywalker? 

“His grandfather usurped the English throne, he saw the king as weak and feeble. The king had been widowed with no children and was negotiating for marriage to a french princess ... he was 32 she was 7” 

Rey gave a little gasp, “Mon Dieu!” 

“There would be no question the marriage would be consummated, Poe hurried to reassure her, she would stay at the french court until of age, but you can see there was very little hope of an heir for some considerable time.” 

Rey was nodding in comprehension. 

“Anakin had a son and a daughter and, well ... he thought he was better suited to be king.” 

“So this king is really no king.” 

Poe laughed, “Better not let him hear you say that!” 

She was looking intently at him, wanting more. 

“Surprisingly, Anakin was a good king. He ruled with a firm hand, but he delivered order and justice to his people. Poe nodded in affirmation to himself. It is in relation to Normandy and France the worst aspects of his character are seen.” 

Her head was tilted, curious. 

“He fell in love with the Duchess of that time, he continued. She was older than he and no-one thought it was anything more than an affair, but he married her and, as far as anyone knows, kept himself only to her.” 

Her gaze sharpened. 

“He only loved the one woman? She was enough?” 

He nodded. 

“The french king wanted her too, it would seem, and he took her title and lands and insulted her virtue, so Anakin made war on him.” 

“The english king, does he have a wife?” 

He shook his head, “No, he is not yet married.” 

“Does he keep a woman? Does he have many women?” 

“Ma belle, he chided her gently, these are improper questions to be asking your husband.” 

She hung her head in penance. 

He softened his tone. 

“It is not obvious if there is any lady he favours – he is said to be much like his grandfather in all his ways and there is not yet a woman to rule him.” 

He rose, retrieving the letter from her. 

Her head was still bowed. 

He reached out and touched her cheek sympathetically. 

“I will leave you to compose yourself, ma belle, but know I am not displeased with you.” 

He exited the room. 

+++ 

Had he looked back he would have seen her raise her head to watch him go, lips thinned, eyes burning with resentment. 

It had been a very great shock to learn Poe had a mistress, a married mistress at that. 

She had never believed he had asked for her because he loved her, there had been no wooing after all, but she had been grateful that a personable, well-mannered older suitor had rescued her from Plutt’s hands. 

Poe, of course, was charm itself and she had begun to believe his smiles and attentions were due to a belated courtship, and had answered his overtures with shy warmth - blushing at his open expressions of affection. The belief he was trying to win her heart had made giving up her virginity to him easier and to enthusiastically, if inexpertly, accept his embraces. 

It had been in the second month of her pregnancy when he had left her bed. She had thought out of consideration of her dignity – she had been a little unwell and nauseous at first. 

His absence made it possible for her Nurse to sleep in her room and attend to her early morning malaise and she had been grateful to him. 

She must have been a little self-absorbed she thought, those first five months of her pregnancy, or else it was carefully hid from her that one of her ladies – a married woman, was in fact sleeping with her husband. That his absence from her bed was not an act of selflessness, but rather to be in the arms of his preferred bedfellow. 

She could have convinced herself that she was mistaken. That the woman wasn’t parting from an embrace with Poe as she walked into the room with the rest of her ladies, had it not been for the hissing of her Nurse at the sight and Poe’s look of consciousness as he approached to greet her. 

‘Ma belle’, he had given his customary greeting and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She fought down the urge to scrub the now tainted skin where his lips had pressed and instead curtsied to him, returning his greeting with a murmured ‘my lord’. 

He had parted from her sooner than usual, staying only to enquire of her health and that of their child. Her ladies had arranged themselves while they spoke and as she made her way to her own chair, she noticed the woman settled on the periphery of the group, seated with the two youngest and most impressionable of her maids. 

She had called for her lute and played and sang, filling the awkward silence with joyful music, encouraging her maids to dance as she played. 

Soon the usual daily pursuits and chatter resumed, and from that day she was able to dissemble whilst in company. Pretend that the presence of the dark haired woman with pale skin and generous bosom (the polar opposite of her) bothered her not one whit. 

Thankfully, mercifully, she never witnessed another exchange of affection between them and the woman did nothing to bring herself to her notice. Only when private with her Nurse were her true feelings laid bare, but Madeleine robustly told her that to make a scene, to ask questions of Poe, would both embarrass and displease him. 

Also, and this was the counsel that helped her manage her humiliation and resentment the best, the other woman would have the mastery over her. Madeleine did not mince her words; she would know how to wound her, to rob of her of status and dignity in the eyes of Poe – in the eyes of others. 

Stubborn pride, then, came to her rescue, and she had the comfort of knowing Poe valued her in all the ways that matter in a marriage not based on true affection. 

She did not regret marrying Poe, not completely, not yet, the alternative being so much worse. 

Oh, how she wished Poe was like Anakin Skywalker who kept himself to one woman – his wife.


	4. Chapter 4

Too long, it had taken too long. 

He had confounded the French and disembarked at Harfleur, rather than, as the French had predicted, Calais or, as his grandfather had, at Honfleur. 

The siege had gone well, but he had found a worthy adversary in the fortress’s captain, who was adroit at repairing overnight the damage to the fortress walls his siege engines had wrought during the day, and in keeping high the morale of the garrison. 

The captain had been defeated by a letter from the Dauphin stating unequivocally there would be no relief force sent and disease breaking out within the fortress. Indeed, the captain himself looked as though he was sickening with something. 

They met for parley and the terms of surrender were thrashed out. Sixty of the most ransomable citizens were to be placed in Ren’s hands – he would hand these over to his captains for their enrichment, and the fortress was to be completely emptied of all french persons. 

There was a little difficulty with this last stipulation, the captain had over 200 poor people he had given food and shelter too. If he turned them out they would surely die. 

They quickly came to agreement: Ren would see to their care and safe-keeping, the captain insisting he gave his word as a knight, swearing it by his sword – he liked this captain. 

+++ 

He had hoped to supply his captains, who were responsible for the wages of their men, with booty and ransoms from the siege and subsequent chevauchee, but the siege had taken too long. 

He was broke too. 

Parliament had voted him three months’ campaign money to be raised through taxation, covering food, wages and ordnance. Unfortunately, this money had yet to be collected and, therefore, would be paid in arrears. 

He had handed over practically all he had of value, jewellery, gold plate, anything which had intrinsic value, as pledges to his captains so their costs were covered. He literally had only his clothes, horses, dogs, armour and weapons as the entirety of his worldly goods. 

He had also had financial assistance from the church, whose love he had, and had instructed his justices, by act of parliament, to assist the church in the tracking down of the heretical Lollards. That money, too, had almost gone. 

Because he only had six ships in his navy – the regency again – he had contracted with merchantmen to disembark his troops. The last of these contracts were nearly up and he couldn’t move his entire army home by sea. 

His plan now was to leave a well-stocked garrison at the fortress, ship the sick and wounded home and march the able-bodied remainder of his army cross country to Calais – through French held territory. 

He would return the following year, having established a beachhead at Harfleur, and conduct a (hopefully) profitable chevauchee. 

+++ 

When he shared his plans with his captains, there was silence. He strove to read their mood and intent. Behind his back his fingers were crossed. 

Finn and Dopheld had already told him they’d back him and remained silent. He wanted to ensure those who agreed to accompany him were backing him 100% - trusted him, had confidence in him to do this. 

The questions they put to him were sensible, that relieved him - they wouldn’t dismiss his plan out of hand. 

They would travel light and relatively swiftly, packing supplies for men and horses for eight days. They would head for the ford at Blanchetaque, taking the route Anakin had taken on his first murder raid. 

Once over the ford, it was three days’ march to Calais – eight days in all. They would hug the coast and keep clear of major towns and fortresses. They had plenty of horses (courtesy of the Scots) so all would be mounted – they should cover twenty miles a day. 

He elaborated. 

Calais was an English enclave, captured and fortified by Anakin. It was an important trading hub for English wool and the cloth trade. 

His troops would be safe either behind its fortified walls or before them, with a marsh protecting them. He could then embark them piecemeal on the merchant ships which came and went there regularly. 

It was also a shorter crossing to England, which was a blessing for the horses if a storm blew up, increasingly likely as they went into winter, the poor things could not vomit and grew pitifully distressed if seasick. 

The mood was positive. He felt it the moment it shifted in his favour. He was a soldier, a good one, and had been fighting since he was fourteen – and he was Anakin Skywalker’s grandson, that counted for something. 

As the meeting broke up, he quietly asked Dopheld to stay. 

+++ 

In his employ, and with him on this campaign, were smiths – metal workers essential to the smooth functioning of an army. 

One smith, in particular, was a master craftsman, or woman – a craftswoman. 

Paige Tico was an exceptional smith. He had once gone over his accounts and totted up the amount he had paid her for her work the last 3 years – over £700, a fortune, and he had been glad to pay it. 

Her speciality was armour and weapons. She was assisted by her sister, who was on this campaign with her – Rose Tico. 

He didn’t pry into people’s private affairs as a matter of policy. He knew, second-hand, she had married, something had gone wrong early in the marriage, and she had left her husband. Her husband had taken to the law both to get her back and, which seemed the more important to him, sequester her earnings. 

Had she asked him, he would have found a way to intervene, but she had not. 

When she had applied to accompany him on campaign, he had outright refused, though sensing the desperation in her determination to go. 

Then Dopheld had approached him on her behalf and his world had rocked around him with the understanding that he was Paige's lover. Not only that, Dopheld was deeply in love with her and, against every tenet of their position in life, would marry her if she were free. 

He had eventually agreed to take her, but she must stay in Harfleur when the fortress was taken and would not accompany them on the chevauchee. 

His terms were agreed and she embarked with them. 

Now he needed to tell Dopheld to order her to embark for England when the last of the merchant ships stood off Harfleur. 

+++ 

Dopheld seemed absorbed by the appearance of his shoes as he relayed this to him. 

“She won’t go.” 

“Dopheld, this is not negotiable. We are going deep into enemy territory; I can’t drag two women into danger.” 

“She’s carrying my child.” 

Ren felt breathless. Why, oh, why had he agreed to bring her in the first place? 

“Dopheld, he was controlling his voice the best he could, Dopheld, all the more reason to send her home.” 

Dopheld was shaking his head. 

“No, she’s safer with me. If she goes back without me she’s in danger, our child is in danger. I can protect her, if she’s with me.” 

Now Ren was floundering. Did he ask for details? Was ignorance the best policy? 

He needed to keep on the right side of the church, and this situation could put him in a very difficult position with them. Offhand, he could think of at least two of the Ten Commandments Dopheld had broken. 

On the other hand, he needed Dopheld too. 

He fought the desire to put his head in his hands and pull at his hair. 

“Dopheld, at least ask her. If she goes with us, she’s wholly your responsibility. I wash my hands of this matter.” 

Dopheld nodded, unperturbed, “Whose responsibility should she be, except mine?” 

Ren had no answer for this, not having a woman to feel responsible for. 

+++ 

He found her where she always was, by her wagon at her portable forge finishing off some work. 

He stood watching her, as always fascinated by the dexterity and skill of her hands. 

She finished up, leaving Rose to clean off her work. 

She walked them to the lea of her wagon. They were still as visible, but it looked more like they were conducting business to the casual passerby. 

About twenty of his archers were lounging about around them – they were hidden in plain sight. 

He stood as close to her as he could without touching her, his eyes drinking her in. 

He badly wanted to remove the coif from her head and release her shimmering hair, as black and glittering as the raven’s wing, to get her out of those inconvenient clothes and admire the pale smoothness of her skin - to touch her intimately. 

Something of this must have shown in his face for she rebuked him. 

“You are staring, my lord.” 

“Love, he corrected. You are staring, my love.” 

He heard her huff of repressed laughter. “How may I serve you ... my love?” 

“In bed, lady, and at board, and every year placing a child of our love in my arms.” 

Dopheld’s native tongue was Welsh - the tongue of the angels, which leant a melodic tone to his voice. When he spoke thus to Paige, his words had the metre of a poem – an erotic poem. 

“Dopheld”, she warned, blushing. 

He cast a longing eye over her body and then turned his thoughts to business. 

“He wants you to return with Rose to England.” 

She was shaking her head before he’d finished speaking. 

“No, Dopheld, do not ask that of me. You know what awaits me if I go back alone.” 

“Hush, love, I’ve no intention of asking. He told me to tell you what he wants and I’ve told you.” 

She gave a little sob of relief. 

He felt a stab of insecurity. 

“Tell me, love, it’s the same for you. Reassure me I’m not alone in this.” 

She cast a glance around them and moved her body against his, fishing for his hands. 

“You’re not alone, my love, my heart, I feel it too.” 

He returned the gentle pressure of her fingers, twining them around his own, pulling her body into his. 

Heedless, and uncaring of who saw, he lowered his head to steal a kiss, murmuring “Neither are you.”


	5. Chapter 5

He had arrived at Harfleur the second week of August, he left it the first week of October. 

He left the garrison well stocked, with the promise of keeping it well supplied when once more in his realm. He had sent his sick and wounded home and given bread and silver coin to the 200 poor people of Harfleur, having them escorted to the safekeeping of the Marshal of France, Boucicaut. 

The captain of Harfleur had delivered himself and 60 of its richest citizens to him, symbolically wearing halters around their necks – his to do with as he would. 

He had divided them between his captains, keeping the captain of Harfleur’s ransom for himself - only imposing a token ransom upon him, because of his bravery and his chivalry. 

All ransoms were payable at Calais on the 11th day of November, that year. Under chivalric law, the French would impose the ransoms if any reneged on them. 

He was glad to leave Harfleur for all sorts of reasons. He was a man who hated inactivity and keeping 12,000 men in one place had, inevitably, enabled disease to manifest itself. 

He had approximately 8,000 men travelling with him, after garrisoning Harfleur and sending the sick and wounded home, at a ratio of 3 archers to every man in arms. In addition were the priests, the smiths, the grooms, the valets, and the minor officials who serviced the needs of the army. 

He had shaken his head when Dopheld gave him the not unexpected news that Paige and her sister would be coming with them. He had taken an ‘on your head be it’ stance, but in truth it bothered him that she was coming with them, and it bothered him that she found this preferable to going home to her husband. He would look into this once they were home. 

The first five days of their journey went as smoothly as traipsing 8,000+ persons over enemy territory could. They occasionally saw small groups of horsemen, clearly scouts, who emerged from woods or stood off on high ground. 

His men were under strict orders not to break ranks and go tear-arsing after some Frenchman making rude gestures or shouting provocations. A couple of times a party of 20 or so made a sortie against them, but Dopheld’s archers took care of business without breaking sweat. 

They were a half day’s journey from Blanchetaque when his own scouts returned with a gentleman in the service of d’Albret they had captured. He was chipper and had no reservations about telling them what they wanted to know. The reason for that was revealed in short order. 

The French, it seemed, also knew the history of Anakin Skywalker’s campaigns against them and had anticipated his grandson would make for the ford at Blanchetaque. 

The Constable was waiting for them on the north shore with a force of 6,000 to cut them down as they crossed. Even in Ren’s intimidating presence his story did not change, rather he relished in personally telling Ren of the fate awaiting him. 

The news was more than an inconvenience. They would have to start living off the land having only three days’ supplies left and turn toward the interior, following the course of the river to find another crossing. 

There was another crossing, two even; Anakin had told him of them as he recounted the history of his various campaigns. He kept this to himself for the moment. If they came to a viable crossing earlier in their journey, he would take it. 

It was quite a psychological blow leaving the coastline behind, knowing themselves only 3 days away from succour and safety, but morale held firm. The sight of their commander, sitting straight backed in the saddle seemingly unperturbed, also had great psychological value. 

He decided to draw up in battle array before each castle and fortified town they encountered and demand bread and wine of them to feed his men. Of course, _all_ would be on short rations, he would share in his men’s privations, but it would suffice. 

As they journeyed on, the truth of the words of the gentleman of d’Albret became self-evident – they were being tracked. A large force mirrored their movements on the opposite bank, pace for pace. A sombre mood settled on his men. 

At the end of the third day they stopped before a castle, drawn up in battle array, and demanded bread and wine. This was forthcoming, its inhabitants wanting to simply move them on. Two of his men at arms had been sickening and in the morning were judged too ill to travel. 

He sent for the castle’s captain. Would he take charge of the invalids and care for them until they recovered? He was agreeable, and in the absence of hard cash Ren offered two of his horses in payment of their expenses, the captain’s choice. 

The captain agreed, choosing a glossy chestnut courser and a pretty little mare, a palfrey, for his wife. 

Men and horses were handed over and they pulled away, stopping that night before a fortified town and vineyard. Once again they demanded bread and wine and it was given them. 

A wine store was discovered with barrel upon barrel filled with wine. His commanders took a relaxed view of the bounty and allowed the men access to it. When Ren heard of it he ordered it closed and sealed and guarded. 

A delegation came to him. 

“Why-fore have you denied us our right to fill our bottles?” 

He stood before them, towering over them in his six foot splendour, massive arms folded across his chest, his eye upon them. 

“Oh, that’s what you were about was it? I had thought you were going to make bottles of your bellies!” 

He pointed in the direction of the river. 

“Go look what awaits you when we cross to the other side. If you think John Frenchman will show mercy upon you because you are drunk, think again.” 

He casually added, “Do you not know the Dauphin has promised to cut the bow fingers off any archer found and captured. Tell me, how will you prevent _that_ in your drunken stupor?” 

They were outraged at this. The majority of the Welsh archers were professionals, making their living drawing the bow for anyone who would pay them the going rate and a fair share of booty. If they lost their bow fingers they were useless - worse than useless!” 

The heart went out of them to argue with him and they broke up, wandering back to their fellows to share this baleful news. 

It was a lie he had told them. He had an inkling of what was awaiting them once they crossed the Somme and he wanted no capitulation or desertion before or on the battlefield. 

As they travelled, they examined each bridge and ford they came across to assess whether it was viable to repair. 

Alas, the Constable had been thorough, bridges destroyed and fords and causeways wrecked and staked. 

Two days before they reached Anakin’s crossings, they captured two men at arms. 

Again, they were free with information. 

All of France had risen against them, determined to drive the Skywalker whelp out of their land once and for all. 

Eighteen, no twenty thousand men were mustering in one invincible force to crush the usurper. 

Ren waited for his captains to join him, deep in thought. 

He had given the French enough time to muster a sizeable force against him, though he doubted to the degree the men at arms had said – there was too much factional in-fighting for them to field such a force without the Dukes of Burgundy, Brittany and Orleans taking to the field. 

He was pretty sure the Dauphin would not allow Burgundy to gather an army and go wherever he would. Burgundy was more likely to march on Paris and capture the king – he was already the queen’s lover. 

Plutt, he knew, had recently lost a rich marriage prize to a mere seigneur, reluctant to offer marriage and lose the queen’s support. The lady in question had declined to be the duke’s mistress and when he had offered marriage at the eleventh hour, desperate not to lose her, she had chosen the seigneur. 

Orleans, authorised to muster an army, was more likely to attack Burgundian held land. 

No, not a force to the extent the men at arms had claimed, but substantial and probably waiting for him at a place of their choosing. 

+++ 

All were now gathered before him. 

He raised his head and addressed them. 

He had God’s backing in his endeavour. He had showed himself an implacable enemy of heresy and had the love of God and the church. Why, the church was currently governing his realm - the Archbishop of Canterbury king _in absentia_. 

As to rights, well, through his grandmother and mother, he was hereditary Duke of Normandy and could, through his grandmother, make a claim to the French throne if he wished, and the dukedom of Aquitaine. 

No, he was so sure of God’s love and backing, he would submit to trial by battle. 

They knew the state of French affairs, riven as they were by factional in-fighting. 

The French could not field an army of the size claimed and he _knew_ Burgundy and Brittany would not take to the field against him. 

That left Orleans, a boy of twenty years, given to writing sonnets and suchlike, whereas he had been fighting, and winning, since he was fourteen. 

No, he would back himself before God and men. His cause was just. 

Now, they were to go back to their companies and put heart into their men. 

Also, every man must cut for himself a stake some six feet tall and sharpen both ends. He would make all clear if and when they engaged the French in battle. 

The fortunes of war were changeable, that was true, but his grandfather had always taught him to keep his courage high and he would have good fortune. 

That advice had never failed him. 

What say you Lord Staples? 

Staples was a sixty-five year old veteran of Anakin’s, come for one last adventure with Anakin’s grandson. 

Aye, came the reply, oft and often have I heard that advice and never has it failed. 

If they did not leave wholly convinced, they at least gave him the benefit of the doubt and carried out his orders with goodwill.


	6. Chapter 6

On the last day he took a risk, pulling away from following the river and taking a straight, direct route over high ground to where he believed Anakin’s fords to be. Hopefully, the French would continue to follow the bends of the river or, better yet, backtrack. 

They were all looking bedraggled and he knew he’d lost weight and a little bit of condition. Illness was starting to manifest itself amongst his men, fatigue and diarrhoea. 

He had them pack up before dawn, setting off as a watery sun began to rise. 

There had been heavy dew overnight and in the air the promise of frosts not far off. The dew clung to the grasses and hedgerows, giving the appearance of cat’s cradles to the spider’s webs woven in them. 

As they climbed, he allowed his mind to wander over many matters of concern, especially how he was going to recover financially from this disastrous campaign. 

He still had his lands, but it would take many years to raise in cash the money he would owe to his captains, and, besides, he was responsible for his household expenses to a greater degree than before. Parliament had insisted on it if they were to raise taxes in his behalf – again, thanks to the improvidence of his mother and her brother. 

His captains had his jewellery and gold plate in pledge, he had even handed over the gold chains of his livery to them, and if he did not redeem these by January 1st next year they would be permanently lost to him. 

He laid his hand against his armour, where Padme’s ring lay underneath, secured by a gold chain around his neck; this would be the only valuable thing he had left apart from his horses and armour. 

Maybe a rich widow was the solution? It didn’t matter if she was pretty as long as she liked him and could bear him being around her. It would be nice, he thought, to have someone waiting for him at home. 

Finn had married a buxom blonde and had a son already and another child on the way. 

For himself, he didn’t know what sort of woman was to his taste, never having met one who was. He was awkward around women, so maybe a widow would be for the best. He wouldn’t mind being managed, in fact that might be a good thing – as long as she was kind to him. 

He touched the place where the jewel lay against his breast again. 

He sighed. He wished it could be like his grandfather and grandmother, but lightning didn’t strike twice, did it? 

He wondered how long he’d last when he returned home before a challenger for the throne came against him. If they had any sense they’d be waiting for him as he disembarked. 

Although his anointing and crowning was valid in law and in the eyes of parliament and the church, he was aware of the saying ‘A king was no king unless he was the son of a king’. 

Well, he certainly wasn’t that, his mother having married a mere knight. Not only that, an itinerant knight, travelling from tournament to tournament in order to win prize money, eking out a living ransoming defeated opponents horses, weapons and armour – all for love it seemed, ignoring the dynastic imperative of her birth. 

That rash act had excluded her from inheriting the throne, but opposing her brother (her twin) being anointed and crowned, arguing to their father he had no greater right than her. Hence Anakin’s solution of joint regency, with him named as heir in order to avoid civil war after his passing, his uncle submitting to his stronger willed sister. 

Until his uncle had tried to murder him. 

He sighed again, family! 

He’d like a clean shirt, too. 

There was no possibility to have laundry done and he was itchy in this shirt. He had no idea how many days he’d worn it, but he was sure it was quite a few given how itchy wearing it now was. 

He was suddenly aware they were closing in on where the fords should be, he had his scouts recalled. 

He ardently beseeched them to make careful search for a ford. He’d had a dream he told them, and was sure the Lord was telling him that there was a crossing ahead. 

They picked up on his urgency that they make careful search and hurried off to pick up the river’s course. They were gone over an hour and then they returned, breathless and beside themselves with joy. 

No, they hadn’t found a ford, they’d found two! 

An attempt had been made to wreck them, in the middle, but whoever had done it had botched the job. They were sure they could be repaired and, best of all – they weren’t staked. Once they’d been repaired it would be safe to cross. 

He did feel genuine relief and expressed this with a rare smile and sincere congratulations for their diligence. They preened a little under his praise. 

Then they were leading him to their find, word passing down the column causing men to press forward with eagerness, tiredness and malaise forgotten. 

There was a village nearby, abandoned upon their arrival. They took off doors and packed the breaches in the causeways with straw and stones, laying the doors down on top, bracing the sides with ladders and planking. 

It was reckoned three men could pass abreast. 

Ren put Finn in charge of the upper ford. The wagons and horses would cross there, where the repair was less invasive. He took charge of the lower, where his troops would cross - Dopheld crossing first with three hundred archers to establish a bridgehead. 

If the men panicked or rushed over, it could end in disaster. He and Finn set their horses in the shallows by the riverbank, looking each man in the face before they crossed – impressing on them with a look to cross in an orderly manner. 

Finally, they were all across and searching out billets and foraging for food. 

Although it was risky, he needed them to have a meaningful rest before they pushed on. 

The atmosphere in the camp was euphoric; the tale of his dream had been passed from mouth to mouth – losing nothing in the telling. 

He set the example by hearing mass and taking communion. 

+++ 

He slept well, wrapped in his military cloak, on a bundle of hay. He wished he had his dogs with him, but he couldn’t risk them. He’d left them at home with Chewie, he being the only one he’d entrust them to. 

They’d been excited to see him dressing, aware of the amount of horses in the courtyard below, believing a day’s sport was ahead of them. They’d been a little confused when they were leashed, as they normally ran free when they hunted with him, never straying too far. 

Beru’s howls as he’d bid them farewell and swung himself into the saddle had been anguished. Bail was upset, but Beru was beside herself. He’d forced himself not to look back in case he weakened – he was so glad he hadn’t brought them, but he missed them terribly. 

He set a course for Calais, a straight line from where they were, foraging as they went but touching no church property. The garrison of the first castle they came across were taken aback to see them but complied generously, obviously itching to be shot of them. 

The French scouts found them two days later. 

On the fourth day, they gave an important fortress a wide berth, that of Roche-Guyon, pressing on with all speed. 

The next day they reached a crossroads and there saw a sight that caused even Ren’s heart to clench momentarily, thousands upon thousands of horses hoof prints and the ruts of carts, all heading for a point ahead of them. 

He heard men sob behind him. 

Even the most untried amongst them could read the evidence trodden into the ground. The French were ahead of them in great number, blocking the road to Calais, waiting at a place convenient to them to give battle. 

He gave one order: those who had coats of arms should don them immediately. 

He dismounted from Silencer and donned his own, loosening his sword in its sheath. 

+++ 

They met the French the afternoon of the next day on a plateau near some woods, spread out in battle array, banners flying. 

He could hear the sound of wailing behind him and a voice rose beseeching the heavens for another 10,000 men. 

He spoke up, his voice carrying over the sounds of grief. 

“Would you? I would not have even one man more. The Lord has given me more than sufficient to do his work this day.” 

His blood ran hot within him, bloodlust upon him, yet his mind was calm and exalted. 

He gave the order: “Assume battle array and break out the banners of St. George”.


	7. Chapter 7

In the weeks and months since _petit_ Charles was born, named after the french king and Charles, Duke of Orleans, head of the Armagnac party to which they belonged, Poe had become besotted with him. 

He is a strong, healthy baby and Poe was beside himself with pride, constantly visiting his son, bending over the crib, remarking on the boy’s beauty, his resemblance to himself. If she happened to be in the nursery, he would press chaste kisses on her, murmuring ‘ma belle’ with real warmth in his voice and eyes. 

Such behaviour had not pleased the woman. It diverted attention from her and became a cause for jealousy and resentment. Poe incurred her displeasure. 

Wrong words had been spoken by her and Poe’s anger had flared. She was to be packed off back to her husband, an older man, a merchant in a nearby town. 

A scene had been enacted at her departure, thankfully not witnessed by Rey, but she was told of it. Poe had been furious with the woman, apparently, stalking off shouting ‘get her out of here’. 

Rey was so grateful for Madeleine’s wise words, so glad she had listened to her nurse and taken her concerns to the Virgin and thereby gained heavenly assistance to endure her lot with dignity. 

She noticed allegiances had shifted in the household to her favour. 

Long-time servants of Poe’s family expressed real warmth toward her and were less deferential toward him. 

Servants bowed lower to her she noticed, and were keen to anticipate her wants and needs. 

Eventually, Poe returned to her bed. However, only long enough to plant another seed in her womb and then the woman was back, silently reappearing on the periphery of the household once more, subdued, but apparently reconciled with Poe. 

And then the English king came and their lives changed forever. 

She had never spoken of her misery and humiliation beyond her nurse and confessor, who had both sustained her with wise counsel interlaced with strong threads of sympathy. 

However, it soon became clear that her situation was generally known of abroad and Poe’s freeness of speech amongst his peers suffered because of it. 

The crisis brought more frequent visitors to Roche-Guyon, seeking hospitality as the army to crush the English king gathered and manoeuvred. 

Gentleman, knight, Baron and Comte bowed low over her hand and greeted Poe politely but with _froideur_. 

He received letters from Boucicaut and d’Albret, concerning the crisis, which began with the briefest of salutations. Whilst in contrast, they begged their best wishes be conveyed to her, with sincere inquiry concerning her health and comfort during her second pregnancy. 

Eventually Poe noticed, and through the prism of others poor opinion of him wondered if the woman was using the dark arts to bind him to her. What else could explain his folly and infatuation? 

In contrast to his wife, visibly pregnant with their second child, full of warmth and light as she greeted the well-born visitors and saw to their comfort and well-being, the woman seemed more a bird of ill omen. 

For the first time, he noticed how marginalised he was in the household. His servants, even old established retainers, did their duty toward him, but it was to Rey they showed eagerness to serve. 

With his new-found awareness, he realised he was tolerated where she was loved. 

In fact the feeling came upon him that his absence would not cause even a ripple in the calm, well-ordered household, and it may be that they felt they were better off without him. 

These observations and realisations caused tensions between him and the woman. 

He foreswore her bed, she became clingy and they quarrelled, not once but many times, loudly, where they could be heard. It was unseemly. 

Finally they quarrelled one day, just before the dinner hour, in the dining hall into which she had pulled him. 

She told him she had given up all for love of him, name, reputation, and home. 

If he thought he could neglect and ignore her, well, he’d better think again. 

Her tone of voice grew desperate as he regarded her, stony of face and hard of eye. 

He was hers, and if he did not return her love _immediately_ she would kill his son. 

It was like being trapped underwater, a pressure against his ears not admitting the sound of speech, as he realised they had an audience - the Comte de la Mare had entered the dining hall with his son and retainers and, it seemed, all of his servants and the fortress captain. 

Supported on de la Mare’s arm was his wife. 

He looked at her and realised any love she had ever had for him he had lost, rather, judging by the expression in her eyes, she despised him. 

She leaned into de la Mare and murmured something to him. 

He bowed over her hands, kissing them, and then she turned and was gone. 

The woman had shrunk back from him, where before she had clung, deathly pale and with terror in her eyes. 

De la Mare turned and said something to Armand Hux, the fortress captain, who bowed and exited the dining room. 

Poe tried to speak, but could not – rooted to the spot. 

Time seemed to slow, and then Hux returned with an escort. 

The woman was seized and dragged, screaming his name, out of the dining hall - sobbing her love for him. 

De la Mare gave further orders, and the bustle of the dinner hour gradually revived as the diners took their places and servants rushed to serve. 

He realised he was _de trop_ and walked out of the hall to his son’s nursery – it was empty. 

He walked to his wife’s quarters; two men at arms were stationed outside her apartments, eyeing him warily. 

He reached out a hand and found the door locked. 

He knocked and called out through the door that he would never, _never_ let anyone harm his son and please, Rey, open the door and he would make all things right. 

Absolute silence answered him. 

Conscious of the men at arms, he tried to dismiss them. 

They moved uncomfortably, but stood their ground. He returned to his own quarters. 

De la Mare extended his visit. 

Two days after the incident, he received orders to join the army. 

De la Mare would assume temporary joint command of Roche-Guyon, with Madame Dameron appointed seigneur. He was to come immediately upon receipt of this order. 

He tried to see Rey and his son before he left, speaking through the still guarded door of his love and regard. The silence from within pressed down upon him. 

Had he asked about her welfare, he would have been told that de la Mare had had the woman delivered to the Bishop of Rouen. 

The bishop, aware of the indignities suffered by Rey Dameron because of the woman, and with the testimony of de la Mare, found her guilty of witchcraft, adultery and practice of the dark arts and summarily executed her. 

After the battle against the English king, Rey Dameron was known as Veuve Dameron – Widow Dameron.


	8. Chapter 8

He dismounted, sending Silencer to the rear and leaving himself vulnerable and exposed. Then he called upon his captains to deploy their men in the pre-arranged battle order. 

About 70% of his men were archers, these he put on his two flanks with a row of archers before the vanguard of his men at arms. These consisted of him, Finn and about 1,000 knights. 

Another 1,000 were behind him as rearguard, led by Lord Staples. Having fought under Anakin, he exuded confidence in their ability to carry the day – necessary if his little band were to hold their ground. 

Priests moved among the troops, hearing confession and granting absolution. He too moved through the ranks of his men, encouraging and giving reassurance that their cause was a just one. Men clung to the hope of him, his self-belief as he walked amongst them almost Messianic. 

The afternoon wore on, the French not moving, silent except for the soft snorts of horses, or the jingling of harness, the dry coughs of men. He kept them under constant scrutiny mirroring any adjustments in their deployment so they didn’t get behind him or outflank him. 

As dusk drew down upon them the French began to disband, heading for their campfires. When he was convinced there was no possibility of them reforming, he stood down his own men and drew them before the wood so none could come up behind them easily. 

He secured the baggage train in a place of safekeeping, ensuring it was well guarded – the priests, young squires, pages and suchlike were helpless otherwise. 

Returning to his troops, he forbade campfires, not wanting to expose them to raids by the French in the night. Also, he demanded absolute silence. As he finished speaking the heavens opened and cold, heavy rain poured down on them. They kept their weapons as dry as they could from the deluge, the archers keeping their precious bowstrings dry under their kettle helmets. 

They passed a miserable night, sheltering the best they could, the rain falling continuously. He walked amongst them the whole of it, in between consulting with his captains, encouraging and consoling. They were so quiet the French panicked thinking they would pull out in the night, building their campfires high to detect any withdrawal. 

He heard Mass an hour before dawn, and as the low, watery winter sun rose it shone upon them standing in battle array, standards raised, banners flying, a morsel of the earth upon which they stood placed under their tongues acknowledging man’s ultimate covenant with the earth - ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’. 

This was the sight which met the French as they emerged from their tents. 

+++ 

The French had fielded an army of about 20,000 plus against him, with reinforcements arriving all the time, but he knew battles weren’t won by numbers alone. 

From what he could determine, three standards were missing in the array opposite: three dukes, Brabant, Brittany and Burgundy. The commander’s standard was of Orleans – the twenty year old poet dilettante with no military experience whatsoever, only the theory of war and appointed by virtue of his status as the French king’s nephew. 

Brittany and Burgundy, he knew, would not appear, that meant the procrastination of the French was due, in part, awaiting Brabant. 

“Do you see, grandfather, he internalised. I can still win this day.” 

As the French formed, he saw cavalry on either flank, intending to take out his archers he believed, but not nearly numerous enough to do the job. 

The French vanguard was packed with the nobility, eager to expunge past defeats and drive him out of France in one glorious day. 

The van was the prime position, the men in it intent on capturing ransomable English such as himself – identifiable by their wearing of coats of arms. His captains had enquired about his own ransom should he be captured; he told them he would win the day or die on the battlefield. 

The French ranks seemed in confusion, he could see a lot of to-ing and fro-ing. It occurred to him that was either due to lack of leadership or he’d guessed right and they were awaiting expected reinforcements, or both. He needed to make something happen. 

The soil on which they stood was Norman clay, which could retain moisture to the consistency of thick soup. He noticed a particularly shiny patch a bow range from the French – standing water, meaning the ground underneath it was saturated. 

He ordered the archers and men at arms to uproot their sharpened stakes and move them forward to just before the shiny expanse. In order to do this they had to walk in front of the stakes and wrestle them out of the ground, backs turned to the enemy making of themselves prime targets. The French stood and watched! 

He then called up his trumpeters and drummers, calling out “Fellows, let’s go!” and marching them forward to the beat of the drum, each man roaring his captains war cry. Still the French stood and watched. 

He halted them, and once again his men exposed their undefended backs, giving a perfect target for the few archers the enemy had or provoking a spontaneous cavalry charge, hammering the stakes in to a depth which would withstand the impact of a charging horse. 

Now the woods brushed their flanks. If and when the French charged, they would be funnelled into a kill zone. His heart beat with savage joy - he had just established that the French were indeed poorly led and without a cohesive battle plan. 

“Oh, grandfather, he breathed, be with me this day and help me finish what you began”. In response, he felt a cool brushing against his neck as if a hand had clasped it in reassurance. 

It was Anakin who had realised the potential of the longbow and had sponsored its development and refined the tactics of its deployment. 

Every Sunday, after Mass, supervised by the parish priest, men practiced at the butts. As soon as they were able to draw back a bowstring, male children were taught how to bend a bow and shoot an arrow. The size of the bow increased incrementally until the full six foot longbow was able to be drawn. 

To be fit for military service, an archer had to be able to fire 12 _aimed_ arrows a minute. Some of Dopheld’s professional Welsh archers could fire 20. Arrows were given out in sheaves of 24, so the average length of fire for 3 sheaves would be 6-7 minutes. 

Anakin always reckoned the outcome of a battle, using the longbow to its optimum strength and range, was decided within the first 3 minutes. 

Ren had issued each of his archers 4 sheaves. 

+++ 

At last the French cavalry mounted a charge. To his amazement, riders hung back. 

He then saw the vanguard fall in and advance rather than wait to see the success, or not, of the charge. 

Because of the depth of the mud due to the downpour the previous night on a newly ploughed field, the horses could not gain the traction needed to increase momentum and deliver a shock to the English, who were all on foot, the whole purpose of a cavalry charge. 

The horses, realising they were being driven toward stakes, turned and bolted – cannoning into the foot soldiers. These were already struggling to remain erect, the horses having churned up the ground further. Many had sunk into the mud down to their knees, the weight of their plate armour bearing down on them. 

Dopheld, standing next to Ren, judged the time right and threw his commander’s baton high into the air, at the same time shouting “Strike!” 

Some 6,000 bowmen drew back their bows, the precious bowstrings dry and taut due to their careful preservation against the rain, and a sound as though from an enormous swarm of angry bees filled the air. The sky darkened over the French under the arrow cloud and then the deadly bodkin tips hit their target – man and horse, punching through plate armour, piercing, impaling, and killing. The outcry of men and horses filled the air. 

72,000 arrows were released in that deadly fusillade the first minute and the dead began to pile up before them. A second fusillade was then released against fresh troops pushing forward, unable to retreat due to the pressure of the men behind them. As they were within bow range of the French front line, the third fusillade had more depth. 

At last all arrows were spent and the Welsh archers discarded their bows and drew their mauls (an adapted hammer) and daggers and prepared to sell their life dear. 

Incredibly, men climbed over their fallen comrades in such numbers they pushed Ren’s vanguard back some six feet, before he rallied and systematically regained ground. He and Finn, in their unmistakable coats of arms were prime targets for capture and ransom and the dead soon began to pile up around them. 

For three hours they fought close quarters, until at last they were able to take the fight to the French. Men were leaving the French ranks in droves and soon they were taking prisoners, it being clear Ren had won the day. 

Charles de Orleans was captured, found pinned under two fallen comrades. Boucicaut and d’Albret were also captured in similar circumstances. 

+++ 

At last it was safe to raise the visors on their helmets and drink deeply of water, glugging the cool liquid down their parched throats into their dehydrated bodies. 

Four heralds who had observed the conflict were now summoned by Ren, who called upon them to judge who had won the day. 

They were unanimous; God had indeed found him to be righteous and given him the day. 

Formalities over, he went to look to the welfare of his men, and count and bury his dead. Thirty fatalities in all and some superficial wounds incurred. He bade them go into the French camp, and for the first time in many days he could feed them and offer them shelter. 

+++ 

As evening drew in, he rode out with Finn and a small escort and came upon a little drama. 

A cart drawn by a single horse had been stopped by some Welsh archers. The three occupants of the cart were tearfully, and ineffectually, beating them off – bidding they desist in hysterical tones. This was proving to be great sport for their assailants who had no intention of complying. 

He made his way over to the cart. Upon registering who it was telling them to stand down, the archers withdrew from their sport, standing silent and apprehensive under his stern eye. 

He addressed the cart’s occupants. 

“Good sirs, would you care to tell me what you are about.” 

They tearfully told him. They had retrieved their lord’s body from the battlefield and were starting their journey home when these rough fellows had stopped them and made sport of them. 

Their mistress was with child and would want the comfort of her husband’s body, properly prepared, resting safely in the family vault and not in the cold Norman clay. 

“Who is your mistress”, he enquired? 

“The Lady Rey, Seigneur de Roche-Guyon.” 

“The Lady Rey”, he repeated, wondering why the name sounded familiar. Some memory stirred in him, a pull as though a string were attached to him and suddenly drawn taut and tugged. 

He shook himself from his reverie and found the three servants looking expectantly at him. 

“Very well, he said, you may go on your way in peace.” 

They thanked him profusely, wiping their runny eyes and noses on their sleeves and settling down to gather the reins and continue their journey. 

He turned his attention to the archers. 

“Have you eaten and drank?” 

They were not expecting inquiries about their welfare and nodded, relieved to escape his censure. 

“Then you’d better get some sleep, he advised, we pull out at first light. It is clear to me the French were awaiting substantial reinforcements. We mustn’t linger here.” 

They nodded and thanked him, moving off to the French camp. 

He gazed after the cart, rapidly dwindling into the distance. He must have given Silencer the command to follow it. Finn’s voice called him back and he pulled up. 

“Best for us to go back too”, advised Finn. 

He nodded, giving one last look at the cart making its way home to the Lady Rey.


	9. Chapter 9

She could grieve for Poe with sincerity. 

Grieve that he had been so bewitched by the woman he had given her a place in their household. 

Grieve that in spite of what she had brought him, her untouched virgin body, revenues from her estates, and his eldest son able to claim a dukedom, (settled on the male line so denied her), he had preferred another man’s wife with nothing to offer except her willing body and adulterous heart. 

Grieve that when he had realised he was trapped it was too late; the woman had threatened her son and could not be allowed to live. 

Grieve that she could not rely on Poe to give the woman up to keep his son safe. 

Grieve also that outsiders had had the moral courage to do what he could not, and that it had cost two lives in the doing of it. 

Therefore, when her servants brought Poe’s broken body to her, she could turn pale and weep for him along with her household. She could thank the three who had brought him home with genuine gratitude, stretching out her hand for them to kiss. Ask the name of the English knight who had acted so chivalrously, and light a candle in thanks for the unknown warrior who was the antithesis of his beastly master. 

Roman de la Mare had been simply wonderful. He had arranged for the cleaning and dressing of Poe’s body, his interring in the family vault. 

His son had returned to Roche-Guyon with wounds, barely escaping capture, and spoke of the betrayal of the dukes of Brittany and Burgundy, who prevaricated and did not arrive to fight as ordered. Brabant too was suspect – arriving the day after the battle. 

It was Armagnac gentlemen and nobility who had faced the English king and paid with their lives. 

How she hated Plutt! 

Her time at the French court had been spent either assiduously avoiding him or enduring mistreatment at the hands of the queen, who was jealous of her. She dreaded to hear that the king was ill, for inevitably Plutt would come to Paris to plot and rut with the queen and importune her to become his mistress. 

It was not known, but the queen had facilitated her marriage to Poe, wanting to be shot of her – her rival for Plutt’s attentions. When Plutt had made his marriage proposal, desperate not to lose her, Isabeau had been furious with her, pinching and slapping her, pulling her hair, accusing her of harlotry. 

She had repudiated this, saying that Plutt was the last man on earth she would want to marry or lay with. 

The queen had slapped her harder then, her rejection of Plutt implying reproach of the queen’s infatuation with him. 

Plutt had wanted to take her clandestinely, but the queen had lied to him, convincing him she was safe under lock and key awaiting his convenience, all the while knowing Poe and the Dauphin were arranging a priest to marry her to Poe. 

She had gathered her household together to listen to de la Mare’s recounting of the battle and the Burgundian treachery. As her household wept to think Frenchmen had made common cause with the English king, she had stood and told them her unborn child would be named after the Dauphin; Louis if a boy, Louise if a girl. It was her way of expressing her defiance of that beastly king. Had she been a man she would have fought with the Armagnac’s and considered her blood well spent. They cheered her. 

Roman de la Mare could not stay indefinitely. So she wrote to the Dauphin, who replied by return with expressions of affection and bade her continue to hold the seigneury of Roche-Guyon, with Armand as her deputy. 

She waved goodbye to Roman de la Mare, finding him very much to her taste and deciding her next husband would be of his sort – for remarry she must, eventually. 

She was safe until her child was born, but then suitors would flock to her, she was a rich prize, and she must be on her guard against abduction. Even the beastly English king would not think twice if she came into his power – which she wouldn’t, safe behind the fortress’s walls. 

_Petit mignon_ Louis was born in February. He was strong and healthy like _petit_ Charles. Poe would have been pleased she thought, but the woman would have become more jealous as he pulled away from her to his sons ... maybe. 

In April she turned nineteen, though she felt so much older, and the household made much of her. Two babies in the house made for much joy and optimism. Nothing could disturb her happiness. 

Two weeks later **he** came back to finish what he’d started. 

+++ 

Of course he didn’t land at Harfleur as everyone surmised he would. Rather, he landed at an obscure place no-one had heard of ... except, perhaps, seagulls. How did he know about these places? Before anyone knew what he was about, he was camped before the walls of Rouen and it was under siege. 

Of course she knew where he got his knowledge from, it was obvious really. That beastly person had made a pact with the devil. If he consorted with Plutt, it stood to reason making deals with the dark side would be no problem at all. 

In order to completely secure Normandy, he would have to invest Roche-Guyon and take it. She was well prepared to repulse him. She and Armand had planned for his coming even before Poe had died. They were given good advice by Roman de la Mare before he left and had acted upon it. 

Armand was an absolute treasure. They had gotten into the habit of drinking a glass of sweet wine together in the afternoon, talking on all sorts of subjects. Nurse had made a little speech about being careful of his heart, but she read only sympathy in his expressions and a willingness to help her discharge her duties as Seigneur. 

After this conversation with Nurse, she had made a point of mentioning she must marry according to her degree next time and not as her heart would wish. His expression had not become cast down; rather he had nodded his understanding. 

_Nurse wasn’t always right_. 

Rouen held out four months, but the summer heat exacerbated disease and the beastly king denied them water. They had no choice but to capitulate. 

Roche-Guyon would be next. 

+++ 

She awoke to the sound of weeping and wailing. Her thoughts flew to her sons and their safety, so she quickly pulled a shift over her head and fastened a robe about her. Her face was soft with sleep and her waist length chestnut hair was unbound. 

She opened her door and followed the sound of weeping. A servant was approaching wringing his hands. 

“Oh, Madame, he has come, he has come.” 

“Who has come?” 

“The English king. Oh, Madame, what will become of us? There was great suffering at Rouen, he was merciless. Oh Madame, Madame.” 

“Stop this wailing, she scolded, he is but a man, and as a man he can be made to submit. I will make him submit to me!” 

She pushed past him, making for the battlements, oblivious to her state of undress. She found Armand standing there and she stood beside him, looking down. Men and ordnance were pouring into the meadows around the fortress. 

“What do you think, Armand?” 

“I think this is just the start of it”, he replied. They will send a representative with terms for our surrender. Then, if we decline to accept them, they will bombard the walls and try to undermine us.” 

“Ha, she said, they obviously don’t know the secrets of Roche-Guyon’s walls. We will confound them yet!” 

“Yes, we shall”, he replied turning to face her for the first time. 

His eyes travelled slowly over her, taking in her bare legs where her robe had parted in her hurry; the softness of her face through sleeping so deeply, and the glory of her chestnut hair, tousled but shining in the light of the morning sun.” 

She got the first inkling of what Nurse had seen – something very like hunger in his eyes when he looked at her. 

In spite of herself, she shivered. She saw his pupils widen and then retract at her reaction. Without a word, she walked away from him, adjusting her robe as she returned to her room. 

+++ 

The Earl of Warwick was courtesy itself as he told her that Kylo Ren was the true Duke of Normandy, by right of his grandmother. 

Therefore, Rouen and Roche-Guyon were part of his birthright. 

So, having come to claim his birthright, she must acknowledge it and pay homage to him as her liege lord and surrender the keys to the fortress. 

“M’sieur, she replied, I am, of course, desolate to refuse you. However, I must inform you that I acknowledge the french king as my liege and it is to him and the Dauphin I render my obedience.” 

“The Dauphin has entrusted me with the office of seigneur here, with Armand as my deputy (nodding gracefully to Armand, who bowed in acknowledgement), and unless and until he tells me to surrender it, I say I shall not.” 

“Madame, he replied with exaggerated courtesy, I am desolate to inform you that you shall, else we shall take it.” 

“M’sieur, I am aware your beastly master has no regard for the lives of women or children, therefore it does not surprise me to hear you threaten me. It is regrettable one such as he desires to be a king, but one must endure it ... I suppose.” 

“Madame, My Lord is chivalry itself and your words wound him. However, he has the legal right to claim anything he wishes in Normandy, and he wishes to claim Roche-Guyon. Spare your people, Madame, and capitulate.” 

“M’sieur, I have but one word for you – No!” 

He bowed. 

“Then, Madame, on your head be it. We will take this fortress and deal very severely with you when we do.” 

“M’sieur, you are welcome to try.” 

He bowed again and left her. 

Armand approached her, a troubled look on his face. 

“Rey, my lady, think what you are about. You have two babies here; the death toll in Rouen was very high due to disease.” 

“Armand, I will not take foolish risks with our people’s lives.” 

An unreadable expression crossed his face. 

She continued. 

“I will get a message to the Dauphin and ask for his assistance and advice, but if it seems our people will suffer unnecessarily, I will capitulate and take the consequences, but, come, acknowledge that that day is far off.” 

He looked at her speculatively and held his peace. 

Over the next few days ordnance was moved into position. Heavy, cumbersome things which needed to be sited fairly close to make an impact on the walls of Roche-Guyon. She ordered crossbowmen to fire as they would, the English pulled back. 

Did they think, she wondered, that she would not have the stomach for a fight, to give the necessary orders? 

She missed Armand at supper that night. She was told he was doing rounds and checking stores. She nodded, accepting that explanation at face value. 

The bombardment began the next morning and, to her horror, she saw critical damage inflicted on the walls where the English were firing. How was this possible? The walls of Roche-Guyon melded seamlessly with the cliff it was built into. 

She went to find Armand. He couldn’t be found. 

She had a bad feeling about this and ordered a systematic search - _still Armand could not be found._

At that there was a rumble and a huge section of wall seemed to literally slide away, almost burying the English below it, certainly they had to move quickly away. 

Her people came running to her in terror, the clamour of their worried voices filling her ears. 

At last she managed to quieten them, “I fear we have been betrayed. One of us has taken payment off the English and told them how to destroy the walls of Roche-Guyon. I will send to the English milord and come to terms with him.” 

At that she turned away, sick at heart. 

She sent her steward and a small escort. He was dressed in his livery and was unmistakably an envoy. She watched from the walls as he was led into the English camp and disappeared from view. 

+++ 

She could not believe what had just been spoken. 

“No!” 

“No?” 

“No, I will not disinherit my children and marry that traitor.” 

“Madame, I was told it was something you would wish for.” 

“ _I_ wish to marry a traitor, disinherit my sons from their inheritance? I think, m’sieur, you have been badly duped.” 

Warwick looked at her, troubled and chewing his lip. 

“Madame, Kylo Ren has given his word. You will be married, and this place will be held by Armand Hux with you as his wife.” 

“Well, then, he’d better unsay it, for I will not marry that traitor – and that is my final word.” 

Warwick looked at her. As a married man he could interpret certain looks. The one currently on Rey’s face was reminiscent of his wife at her most determined – the one he always gave in to. 

“Well then, if that’s your final word... “ 

“It is!” 

He roused himself. 

“Then, Madame, you must travel with me to Kylo Ren and receive your punishment for your disobedience.”


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as he saw her he knew he had made a grave mistake promising her to another. She was The One Anakin had spoken of. 

He fought down the urge to pull out Padme’s ring and go down on one knee and beg her to marry him. 

She was very angry – at him. 

He wanted to embrace her and kiss away the frown she was wearing, and coax those soft lips of hers into a needy pout begging for his kisses and not have them thinned in anger as she looked at him. 

Nevertheless, he had given his word. 

“Madame, you have been disobedient.” 

She looked him over as though assessing his worth. 

“That is a matter of opinion, m’sieur.” 

Maker, he loved the sound of her voice. 

“Madame, it is not. You would deny me my rights as your duke. I say you have been disobedient and caused me much trouble.” 

“Goodness, how inconvenient for you. I wonder at us French, why don’t we just roll over while you take what you want.” 

He fought down the urge to laugh at her pretty defiance. 

“Madame, I wonder at you. You don’t seem to take this matter seriously.” 

That touched a nerve. 

“M’sieur, I take very seriously that you have promised me to an inferior person without my consent; that you have put my sons’ birthright in jeopardy. What mother does not fight to preserve her son’s inheritance? I will tell you, a selfish, negligent one. Well, I am not of that sort! I tell you plainly, I will not marry the traitor Armand Hux and I will not disinherit my sons!” 

She was shouting at him now, and her words touched a nerve with him. 

He kicked away his footstool. It went skittering loudly over the floor, the onlookers jumped – not her, she glared at him. 

He rose and he saw her eyes widen at his height and breadth, then that defiant look was back. 

He walked slowly toward her, stopping short and towering over her. 

She had pulled herself up to her full height, she’d fit nicely against him, he thought, head tucked under his chin. 

“Will you not?” 

“I will not.” 

He stared down at her, taking in the veil covering her hair and the gold coronet she wore as an ornament over it, how it gave her the look of a queen. The clear hazel eyes and sun-kissed skin, the pretty pink lips he was fighting the urge to kiss. 

She gazed back at him, unafraid. 

“Then you shall not.” 

His whole body relaxed and he looked over to where his squires and pages stood and called for his hat, gloves and horse. 

He looked down at her; she was wearing a confused look. 

He held out his hand and bade her take it. 

“What?” 

“Take my hand Lady Rey and I will take you back to your lodgings. You are staying with the bishop, I believe?” 

She was staring at him, trying to understand his sudden change of mood. 

“What?” 

He smothered a laugh at her confusion, at her lack of words where previously she had had many to throw at him. 

“Please take my hand and I will escort you to your lodgings. 

“Do you make fun of me, m’sieur? Is this a game?” 

Her face was full of suspicion now, the stance of her body belligerent. Maker, she was adorable. 

A page hurried up with his hat and gloves. He put them on. 

As he worked his fingers into his gloves, she stood off ready for flight. 

He caught sight of a faint blush on her cheeks when he raised his eyes again. He proffered his hand once more – “My lady.” 

He had a bad moment when he thought she would deny him, then, tentatively, she placed her hand in his. He felt euphoric clasping her tiny hand. 

As they walked to where Silencer awaited, he had the thought that they needed to know more about each other before he proposed marriage. The big horse was jingling his harness and he was pleased to have a talking point. 

He introduced Silencer to her, nodding to the groom to pass her a titbit to feed him. 

She laughed at Silencer’s soft lipping of her palm and the nudging for just one more titbit, please. 

She admired Silencer’s harness and he confided to her about how the horse loved to jingle it whilst waiting and how only certain grooms could ride him. 

She listened, fascinated, as he told her about his dogs and how close they were to his horse. There was a little bit of wistfulness to her look which he didn’t understand, but made sure he would inquire about at a more convenient time. 

He asked her if she liked dogs and she shrugged; she had never had one of her own. He was appalled, his dogs meant everything to him and he cared for them tenderly and mourned their passing. 

He’d buy her a nice pair of spaniels, he thought, for a betrothal gift. 

He was suddenly mindful that he was keeping her standing, which surely was not good for her. 

“Come, my lady, he beseeched her, you will catch cold standing here. Let me mount you.” 

He was suddenly conscious that that might be interpreted wrongly and began to blush and stammer. 

“I mean, of course, to seat you on my horse.” 

She smiled and laughed, making a joke of his _faux pas_. 

“Assuredly, m’sieur, the other would not be _convenable_ in such a public place.” 

He added wanting to make her laugh and smile every hour to his desire to kiss her. 

He was beside her, putting his hands on her waist and lifting her into Silencer’s saddle seated sideways. The big horse moved, turning his head to see who it was so light on his back. He patted his neck and the big horse settled. 

He turned to look up at her and saw her face had flushed bright scarlet. 

“Is aught wrong, my lady?” he enquired anxiously. 

“No, sir, it ... it just seems a long way to the ground and I’m a little nervous.” 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, he confided, I’ve got you.” 

He was busy adjusting the stirrup for her, getting quite a thrill when he held her small foot and guided it against the footrest. 

He realised he needed a leading rein and the groom ran off to get one, while he looked around at his escort, wondering where Dopheld and Finn had gotten. There was no sign of them and he realised he had been a little self-absorbed over her and ought to have introduced her to Dopheld, at least. 

Then the groom was back with the leading rein and he clipped it to Silencer’s bridle. He nodded to the captain in charge of his escort and they moved out in front of him and out of the courtyard into the street. 

He clicked his tongue and Silencer stepped out too, shod feet rasping on the cobbles. He gave a little sigh of happiness that Silencer had accepted a stranger on his back – such a precious cargo. 

He looked up at her. She looked a little nervous and was gripping the pommel tightly. He wondered if he ought to have swung himself into the saddle and drawn her up before him. He liked that idea and promised himself ‘next time’. 

Dopheld and Finn emerged from where they’d been hiding, scarlet with suppressed laughter, fists in their mouths and doubled up with mirth. 

“Well, remarked Dopheld, I think we won’t be straying far from home in the future.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, replied Finn, ribs aching from laughing, he’ll have to do a little better than tell her about his horse and dogs – and flat out offering to mount her.” 

They dissolved into sniggers, the wicked pair. 

+++ 

They walked through the streets of Rouen toward the cathedral and the bishop’s palace. She had asked the earl to take her there, knowing she’d be kept safe, the bishop being an Armagnac ally. 

They were stared at, covertly, but just by the feeling of tension in the streets, she could feel that their journey was closely observed and resented. 

She was thrown off kilter by the events of the morning. She had been determined to defy him to the bitter end, hoping against hope that end would not mean death for her or the threat of it. She had been so sure it would come to that, he had looked so bleak and determined. 

When he kicked the footstool away she thought that surely this was her end and determined to die bravely, the bishop of Rouen having promised to foster her children and keep them safe under the auspices of the church. The English king was said to be respectful of the church and obedient to its wishes. 

Then he had capitulated and it was as though a different person stood before her. She had suspected a trap and got ready to flee, although how far she would have got ... really, Rey! 

She’d watched him draw on his gloves and, how could this be, had wondered what it would feel like to have his hands upon her. She had felt her cheeks warm with shame over her thoughts. 

He had seemed very boyish as he introduced her to his horse and told her about his dogs. His verbal _faux pas_ had not offended her, rather she thought he looked adorable in his confusion. 

When he had lifted her into the saddle, the strength of his hands, the way he’d lifted her as though her weight was nothing to him, well, it had stirred up strange sensations within her. She knew a moment when she wished he’d renew his offer to mount her and give him a very different response and felt the heat rise in her cheeks at that thought to match the heat between her thighs. 

Again, how could this be?” 

He walked steadily at her side, glancing up every now and again. 

His eyes were the colour of cognac, she noted, and his skin pale, dotted with moles and beauty spots. The nose was noble, patrician even, and his lips full and red. She would like to kiss them, she decided, test out whether they were as soft and plush as they looked. 

She had never instigated sexual relations with Poe, but with this man, if he wasn’t who he was, and they were private, she thought she would seduce him - a caress, perhaps, to one of those big hands. Then she’d draw her fingertips down one of his cheeks, feathering them over his lips and then reaching up on tiptoe to press a chaste kiss against them. 

If he responded positively, well, then she’d be bolder and press another sort of kiss to his lips, one which was a little harder, pushing her tongue against them and into his mouth when he opened to her. 

“My lady”, she was drawn back into the present; he was looking at her with real concern, they had arrived at the palace. 

She wanted to tell him of her thoughts, but instead made the excuse of tiredness for her distraction, feeling heat in her cheeks once more. 

Then his big hand was on her ankle, removing it from the stirrup, and a thrill ran through her. She felt his firm grip on her waist and then she was being lifted from the saddle, enjoying the helplessness she felt as he held her up before setting her on her feet. 

He didn’t let go, and on impulse she pressed herself forward, her face turned up to him inviting his kiss. 

He looked confused and embarrassment flooded through her. She pulled herself out of his grip and ran into the palace and to her room. She cast herself on her bed and wept tears of real shame. 

Then Nurse was there, comforting her and calling him a beast. 

That’s not how she thought of him at all, but she clung to Nurse until she quietened and fell into an exhausted sleep. 

+++ 

“Idiot! Fool!” he berated himself as he rode away. 

Obviously she felt it too, this pull, and had asked for his kiss farewell, turning her face up to him in the most trusting manner, and he had denied her. The thing he had been longing for since he met her and he had denied her. 

What must she think of him? It would be no more than he deserved if she gave her love to another. Of course, she would have signed that person’s death warrant, but it would be no more than he deserved if she sought a more ardent lover. 

H made a most sacred vow, she would never have to wait for his kisses again. 

He would make a sacred vow to kiss her the instant he saw her, tomorrow, before he gave her Padme’s ring.


	11. Chapter 11

He felt all wrong. 

He felt all wrong as he sat down to dinner, morose and uncommunicative. 

Dopheld and Finn exchanged knowing glances. Their friend was notoriously awkward with women and they guessed he had missed a cue to act the lover and had been rebuked for it – after such a promising start too. 

He felt all wrong when he sat with his captains to discuss his next moves, to such an extent they exchanged worried glances and began examining their conduct – had they given any cause for complaint? 

He cheered up when he sent out word about spaniels for sale and heard of a litter a few towns over and set his agents to make inquiry. 

He cheered up when Rouen’s foremost goldsmith brought samples of his wares to him. 

He selected a gold necklace made up of linked small tablets of engraved gold for ~~his beloved~~ Lady Rey, and a wedding ring for himself – which he put on immediately to show he was betrothed. 

He needed to discreetly work out what size of ring would fit her tiny fingers, and spent a happy hour working out stratagems to do just that. 

He felt all wrong as the day wore on and he counted the hours they’d been apart and the hours before he’d see her again, and found the latter exceeded the former. Then he began to worry in case she wouldn’t see him – it was a possibility as he had proven to be such a poor lover. 

How could he compete with a fine french nobleman, coached from infancy in courtly love? Or someone like Finn or Dopheld ... his hands made fists as he recalled what he knew of Dopheld's amorous adventures. If Dopheld even dared to approach her ... he growled his intent. 

These thoughts cast him into a well of wrongness and he took himself off to his room to count off the hours until he could see her again – if she consented to see him, which she may not... 

His valets took one look at his discontented face and were quick about undressing him and putting him into his robe, before tiptoeing out. 

He didn’t really notice, but sat before the fire drinking his wine and feeling all wrong. 

+++ 

On the other side of his bedroom door, his household was alive with gossip and speculation. 

He’d been oblivious to the eyewitnesses present when he had exchanged words with her, and mounted her on his horse, and escorted her to the palace only to return downcast and miserable. 

These eyewitnesses had recounted, in the minutest detail, his interactions with the Lady Rey. By the time sentries had been posted, and he and his household had gone to bed, word of his troubles was spreading rapidly – even to the English camp. 

Kylo Ren, it was said, had received a _coup de foudre_ from a woman and was experiencing difficulties in his pursuit of her – indeed, she had fled from him in tears. 

Some laughed to hear the gossip about him; the prudent vowed to walk softly when in his presence. 

+++ 

He slept fitfully and awoke early, as was his custom. 

Due to his valets’ neglect of him, quite the wrong doublet had been laid out. Then he had found fault with the shine on his boots, again due to the neglectful persons about him. Then, in the hurry to set things right about dressing his person, his neglectful servants forgot to feed him. 

He sighed over his sufferings at their hands - causing more anxiety than if he had shouted. He remarked out loud that he supposed he’d be better off looking after himself and save all the money he paid in wages and giving gifts three times a year. 

Were other princes as surrounded by ingrates as he was, neglectful of their master’s comforts? He swept out of his room without waiting an answer, leaving his servants devastated and exchanging bitter recriminations as to whose fault all this was. 

The custom of neglect of him extended to his grooms and captains he found. He strolled into the courtyard to mount his horse and visit his lady, and found only open-mouthed stupefaction there. He said nothing, merely glowering and tapping his whip against his boot. Eventually, someone cared enough about him (Finn) to see to his needs and order his horse and escort. He finally set off to visit – belatedly. 

+++ 

The servant at the palace bowed low but had to deny him admittance. The Lady Rey already had a visitor and the gentleman had asked for them not to be disturbed – this was said with a certain amount of slyness. 

Finn worriedly glanced at his friend’s face and found it to be mask-like in its stillness. 

With great suavity, Kylo assured the servant they were expected. The servant would have remonstrated but, stealing a look at that bleak face, bowed again in deference and proceeded to lead them to where Lady Rey was receiving visitors. 

Finn beckoned to four of the escort to follow. 

As they approached, there was the unmistakable sound of a quarrel – a man’s voice raised in anger, followed by the cry of a woman in distress. 

Kylo didn’t hesitate, striding into the room to where a red-headed man was trying to kiss his betrothed, holding her fast by her arms. She had placed a hand over her mouth, clearly not wanting his kisses, and an arm outstretched against his chest holding him off as she struggled to get free. An elderly servant was lying prone on the ground having been pushed violently away. 

Kylo pulled him off, punching him once in the face. The man staggered back with the force of the blow and fell heavily as Kylo seamlessly pulled his dagger from its sheath – the dagger more resembling a slaughtering knife. As he moved purposefully toward the fallen man, his intention clear, Rey’s voice was raised begging him to stop. 

He paused, never taking his eyes of the man, whose face now wore a ghastly expression, and asked her in voice not quite his own: “Is he your lover, then?” 

“No, no, she cried aghast, but before me?” 

That gave him pause, he stepped back to stand beside her. 

“Sweetheart, forgive me, go to your room, I won’t be long with this business.” 

She licked her lips nervously. 

“Kylo, I find I don’t want you to kill him. He has insulted me, but he has not harmed me.” 

His tone was indulgent. 

“Ah, but love, he would have had I not come. Now, please, go to your room while I finish this.” 

She cast pleading eyes at Finn, who shook his head. The four guards stood passive and unmoving beside him. 

All five knew there was no stopping what would happen next. 

She began to sob, and then Nurse was there, shaken but putting her arms around her, murmuring ‘come my pet, come my lamb’, trying to draw her from the room. 

She started to move toward the door and Finn stood to one side opening the door wide. The sound of hurrying footsteps reached them, drawing closer – the bishop of Rouen and his servants. 

With one sweep of his eyes, he took in the situation. 

“Lord Kylo, I forbid you to do that man further harm. I see your intent and would remind you that you stand on hallowed ground.” 

His words seemed to fall on deaf ears, he spoke again. 

“Lord Kylo!” 

Slowly Kylo backed off, obedient as always to the voice of a priest, but his eyes were glued on the red-headed man’s face, drinking in every detail of his features – remembering. 

“Very well. Finn, have him taken outside.” 

“No, no, the bishop intervened; I see what you are about, my lord. This man is in my charge now.” 

It seemed Kylo Ren would have argued with the churchman, but Rey had the happy idea of casting herself into his arms and bursting into tears. Instinctively he folded her against his chest, murmuring soft reassurances. He had her, she was safe. He would let no-one harm her, there, there. 

Finn drew the limping Nurse from the room with the escort. The bishop’s servants picked up the fallen man and carried him to safety. The door of the room closed softly behind them. 

+++ 

His love was in his arms, clearly needing to draw on his physical and emotional strength, he knew then he was born to protect her. 

He looked around and saw a wooden settle, picked her up and settled her comfortably on his knee, laying the dagger down beside them. 

She had her cry and was hiccupping now, searching for her handkerchief. Fortunately he had his, he’d put it in his sleeve himself. He dried her eyes and got her to blow her nose. He looked around the room again and spotted a carafe of wine and goblets. On telling her he would fetch a cup of wine, she chirped ‘I’ll get it’ and hopped off his knee. His heart sank. 

However, coming back with a full cup, she hopped back onto his knee, squirming to get comfortable, much to his consternation, before settling and sipping her wine. 

She passed the glass to him with his share and laid her head on his shoulder in a very weak way, arms clasped around him. 

When he’d drunk his wine and put down the cup, he wound both arms around her and asked as gently as he could: “Who was that man, sweetheart?” 

“Armand Hux. He was my deputy at Roche-Guyon and the man who betrayed us to you.” She didn’t add that this was the man he had promised her in marriage to. 

“Ah!” 

They sat in silence for a while. She shifted and wound her arms around his neck, he held her tight. 

She spoke again. 

“Nurse warned me he was becoming fond after Poe died. I did let him know that I could never be his – I think that’s why he betrayed us, presenting me with a fait accompli.” 

“Ah.” 

“He came here today to claim me. I told him I was not free to marry him and never would be. He tried to force me so that I must, in front of Nurse too. He was beside himself.” 

He made no answer to this, but the expression on his face boded ill for Armand Hux – he held her tighter. 

He remembered his vow to kiss her and placed a chaste kiss to her forehead. She sighed – happily? 

He grew bolder and placed a kiss on the tip of her nose. She moved to sit straighter and turned her face toward him. He cupped her chin in one hand and kissed her on the lips. She melted into him raising her hand to cover his, leaning into it slightly. Her fingers touched his ring and she pulled away from him a stricken look on her face. 

She scrambled off his lap. 

“I see what you are about, m’sieur, and I will not let you make a harlot out of me!” 

He stared at her in confusion, “What are you talking about?” 

She pointed at the hand wearing the ring. 

“Do you deny you are betrothed?” 

“Oh, that, he said casually, yes, I’m betrothed – to you.”


	12. Chapter 12

She had no words, staring at him with her lips parted in shock. 

As she hadn’t repudiated him, he was swiftly on his feet and by her side. 

“I first heard your name on the battlefield, your people told me it, and there was a tug here, he put his hand over his heart, which bid me follow them home, as though a string or a thread was attached to my heart. The idea of you has never ceased since that day.” 

She had lowered her eyes to look at the place where the thread was said to be attached, and then raised them to meet his. 

She looked at him thoughtfully, “Was it a thread of gossamer, then, for it must soon have been broken that you gave me to another.” 

Her tone was flat but not accusatory. He took hope from that. 

“Yes, I did, and have paid with such agonies of mind of what might have been had you not stood firm against me - cursing my lack of understanding.” 

“Still, you proved yourself to be without faith.” 

“No, rather weak in faith, needing to see what was mine in order to have faith in it. Now, though, now that I have seen the prize for which I must strive, I have both hope and faith in abundance. Sweetheart, tell me, have you felt the thread’s pull too or am I destined to be your petitioner always?” 

She put her hand on his hand, which had remained covering his heart. 

“You are not alone in what you feel.” 

“A double blessing then, for neither are you”, he answered. 

They gazed at each other, his thoughts urgent on how to make them one through the marriage bond. 

She broke the reverie. 

“I fear my faith is still lacking. Having lived in a faithless marriage, I yet doubt though I yearn to believe. What pledge can you give me of your constancy? How will I know you are really mine and always will be mine and mine alone? Will I be placing my heart in safe hands or in careless, cruel fingers if I gave it to you?” 

He took her hand from his breast and kissed her palm before letting go. 

He slid his hands under the neckband of his shirt and felt for the chain from which Padme’s ring hung, drawing it up quickly before her intrigued gaze. 

He showed it to her, the mesmerising colour of the emerald drawing a gasp of admiration from her. 

“This ring was given to my grandfather by my grandmother. He loved her but she too doubted him as she was older than he. 

She took him to her bed loving him but believing him to be infatuated, bidding him come live his life with her in the one night. In the morning she gave him this ring as a remembrance and bid him adieu. 

In answer he gave it back to her and took her to a priest to wed them. He took this ring back as his wedding band. He was faithful to her during her lifetime and beyond, as a grieving widower. 

He gave me this ring on his deathbed and told me to give it to you when I found you.” 

She raised her eyes from the ring, a puzzled frown on her face. 

“He named me?” 

“He called you The One.” 

A flicker of some emotion passed over her face and she looked at the ring once more. 

“If I take it what does it signify?” 

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and then answered her. 

“If you take it from me, we’ll go find a priest and marry this day – I trust you to be safe only in my care. Then I will be yours and you will be mine.” 

She looked into his eyes then, so dark and intense. They would quarrel; she could see it, both of them being strong characters. He would be jealous and possessive, but he would always be hers. 

Theirs would not be a lukewarm union, not the bloodless coupling as with Poe. He would not come to her only for bodily relief while estranged from his mistress or with the need to sire an heir to bind her to him. No, he would want to possess every bit of her and expect her to want every bit of him in return. 

However it had been with Poe, it would be the opposite with him. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yes, to all of it.” 

She thought he would pull her into his arms in a crushing embrace. Instead he went down on one knee, unfastening the chain threaded through Padme’s ring. He held it up before her. 

“Lady, will you be mine in marriage - mine to have and hold?” 

She looked down at him, “Yes, my lord, I’ll be yours in marriage, if you’ll keep yourself only to me.” 

“Lady, there will be no other – just you.” 

She held her hand out and he slipped the great ring on her finger, she made a fist in order to keep it on. 

He returned to the settle and retrieved his dagger and approached her, reaching out for her free hand and turning it palm up to kiss it in a most chaste manner. 

He smiled at her and she felt her heart stutter at the expression of joy on his face. 

Suddenly she wobbled, pulling back her hand – “My children?” 

“They will be as my own.” 

“You say that now... “ 

“It will be in the marriage vow. I will pledge myself to both you and the Lord before the altar”, he promised. 

“What of France? What of the Dauphin?” 

“Sweetheart, such things take care of themselves, but I promise I will be more inclined to sue for peace with a Frenchwoman as my wife.” 

She caught at her bottom lip, worrying it a little. 

He held his hand out again to her, “Come, come with me to church and marry me ... please.” 

She looked at the hand and then into his eyes. There was longing there and sincerity. She reached out and touched it with her own. At once she was drawn into his body and his lips pressed to hers. Automatically, her hands went into his hair and as their lips worked against each other she marvelled at the softness of his lips, so different from Poe’s thin-lipped kisses. 

He released her and crooked his elbow and she slipped her arm in his as he opened the door and they stepped out to find a priest to marry them. +++ 

The good thing about Finn and Dopheld was that they were both friends and allies. 

The bad thing about them was because they were friends and both sexually experienced, particularly Dopheld, they made assumptions about his sexual experience - or rather the lack of it. 

This annoyed him. For all they knew, he could have serviced half the women in France. He hadn’t, but he could have. 

When he had been undressed and put in his robe, he was treated to lots of advice as to how he should go on with his wife. He then had his back slapped by them both in a manly, brotherly kind of way and sent on his way to his new bride - huffing with annoyance and just the teeniest, tiniest bit nervous. 

She was awaiting him, alone, also dressed in a robe and looking just the teeniest, tiniest bit nervous too. That made him feel better. 

He secured the door and walked over to the table upon which stood wine. Would she like a glass? Yes, she rather thought she would. Thank you. 

He brought it over to her, standing in front of her in a companionable/awkward silence as they sipped their wine. 

He noticed Padme’s ring was missing from her hand and felt his stomach drop a little with anxiety. 

He enquired after it and she told him she was wearing it around her neck on its chain - it was lying safely between her breasts she confided. He gulped down a mouthful of wine. 

He said he’d get the jeweller to visit tomorrow and fit her for a gold wedding band. He apologised that he hadn’t bought her a ring already but had been unsure what size to buy. She said that was a good thing as she needed to wear it a little loose as her fingers tended to swell during pregnancy. He gulped down the rest of his wine. 

Well, she said. Well, he replied - funny how that one word could be loaded with meaning. 

He took her glass from her and set both down on the table, walking to his usual side of the bed. He stood there and she stood the opposite side. He cleared his throat and took off his robe tossing it on the bed. He was naked underneath it and slid between the sheets. She hesitated and then removed her robe. She too was naked under it and he felt his base parts swell in anticipation at the sight of her, and the ring and gold chain which was indeed nestled between her breasts. 

She slid into bed and they lay there a few moments quite still. Then he heard his voice ask, ‘May I kiss you, my lady?’ 

Was that a giggle in her voice or a nervous tremor? It didn’t help to dwell on that as she answered ‘You may, my lord’. 

He slid over to her, leaning over to plant a chaste kiss to her lips. 

What happened next was like some wonderful dream. Her legs tangled with his and her arms wound themselves around his neck and she kissed him back in a way that was not chaste. 

She must be drawing him against her body because his base parts were now pressed against her belly and she moaned at the feel of him. Jesu, he had never known that feeling before! 

Then she was pushing him back against his pillows and straddling him, the ring resting on his chest. She was touching his penis and commenting ‘My lord is blessed’, which set him straining even more. 

Then her fingers were entangling themselves in his hair, pulling at it in the most pleasurable way, and she was pressing something against his lips, her tongue? He tried to recall Finn and Dopheld’s advice, to no avail. 

Now she had drawn back, hands still in his hair, telling him she had wanted to kiss him for days and would be kissing him daily for the rest of her life. He managed a nod in assent, suddenly being rendered mute save for the groans he kept emitting as she resumed her kissing. Yes, that was her tongue pressed against his lips and he opened to her. 

Then she was saying ‘My lord forgive me, but I have to have you’, and her tiny hand was grasped around his member and guiding him into her. Shouldn’t he be doing something? Apparently not, as his penis sank into a tight, warm channel. There were such fluttering and clenching around it that his eyes rolled back in his head. 

Then she was moving over him, a hand against his throat and her other hand beside his head on his pillow, the ring on its chain moving across his chest. Oh, the things she was saying about him, his lavish size, his hardness, and the pleasure he was giving her (without even trying). 

Then her words ceased and she was panting and he was grunting, he was sure that was him grunting, his breath starting to rasp. She increased the pace, grinding against his pubic bone and he had only one word ‘Rey’ as his balls tightened and he thrust upwards, fingers digging into her buttocks as he gushed into her. 

She hovered over him, clamped tightly around him, milking him, leaning forward and giving him slow, languorous kisses, pulling his bottom lip into her mouth and sucking at it. 

He eventually slid out of her, slippery and wet, but she was still running her fingers through his hair and kissing him as though that was the sole reason for her existence. 

He became aware of her soft breasts against his chest and of his hands caressing her back. Finally, she snuggled down, legs tangled with his once more, idly stroking him and wishing him a sleepy goodnight. 

He lay awake for a while, not thinking of anything in particular but with a new awareness of his body. He pressed a kiss against her hair and closed his eyes as her soft snores soothed him into sleep. 

His last conscious thought was to wonder how soon they’d get to do it again.


	13. Chapter 13

To say he awoke a changed man would be an understatement. 

His wife was still in his arms, clasped tightly to his chest, his face buried in her hair, her bottom pressed firmly into the place where he now lived. All his instincts said to wake her and make her his own once more. He pushed this feeling down, believing she needed her rest. 

He therefore eased out of bed, careful not to disturb her. She shifted and he held his breath - she settled again. Relieved he put on his robe and slowly drank a half cup of wine while his morning wood settled. 

He exited their room and made for his dressing room. His clothes for the day were laid out but there was no sign of his valets. He washed and dressed himself, pulling on his boots and fastening on his sword belt. Last night had been the first night since he was a child he’d gone to bed unarmed – it would be the last. 

It seemed strange not feeling his grandfather’s ring against his breast, but he liked its current location better. He immediately quashed that thought, his wife needed to sleep. 

He was going to go straight downstairs to get breakfast, but paused and turned the opposite way instead, heading for the hastily contrived nursery where his two foster sons lay. For such a big man, he could walk silently when the occasion called, and only the faint creak of the door as he pushed it open gave him away. Louis wet nurse was deeply asleep, as were the two nursery maids. 

He peeked at Charles, he too was soundly asleep. Louis, tucked into his crib, was awake however, and smiling at him. He smiled back and melted before his foster son’s gummy grin. Two little white spots were visible on his lower jaw and his cheeks were inflamed – teething was happening. He went to quietly turn away and a needy wail was emitted. He reached in and pulled back the crib’s covers and fists and feet were waved excitedly at him in the anticipation of being picked up. 

‘I’ve started something now’, he thought, reaching in and lifting the baby up. 

Grateful coos were poured into his ear and the painful gums clamped down onto Louis clenched fist, copious amounts of dribble running down it. The boy needed something to bite on to cut his teeth; he would get his steward onto it. 

‘Well, in for a penny in for a pound’ was his thought as he turned and walked out of the room with Louis clasped to his chest. Like a lot of big men, he had a soft spot for children and animals, so when Louis started ‘talking’ to him, he answered him back. 

He had now arrived at the main living quarters, and his servants cast down their eyes to hide their mirth. 

His steward was bowing before him. 

“How may I serve you, my lord?” 

“William. My son needs something to aid his teething, see to it, and my breakfast, please.” 

It felt good saying ‘my son’. 

The servant bowed low and relayed the order for his lord’s breakfast to be brought. 

Unbeknownst to him, his steward also sent for Nurse, anticipating ructions when Louis was denied the Lord Kylo’s breakfast, not being weaned but also having no teeth to chew with. 

Meanwhile, Kylo was dipping his pinkie finger into a pot of honey and Louis was eagerly sucking it down, chops smacking furiously with the sublime taste of the sweet stuff on his tongue. 

He’d progressed to dipping his pointer finger in his breakfast beer, Louis fully appreciative of the taste, when a scandalised clucking assailed his ears. 

“What are you about, my lord, give the baby to me.” 

Louis let out an angry wail, being snatched from his arms and rapidly carried away, cheeks as red as apples and eyes screwed up leaking copious tears. 

If he hadn’t already acknowledged his deficiencies as a nursemaid, being only newly married, he would have gone after her and snatched Louis back. As it was, he glumly returned to his meal and wished once more he had his dogs with him. He brightened with this thought, determining to ride out for the spaniels if there was indeed a litter two towns over. 

+++ 

She awoke with limbs heavy and languorous. What a night! 

She had guessed her warrior-king husband may not be experienced sexually, indeed suspected that he was a virgin. His behaviour when they were private had confirmed this last assumption. 

What she hadn’t anticipated was the height and breadth and width of him. Passive in her lovemaking with Poe when she realised he kept a mistress before her eyes, she had been filled with lust when she observed her new husband’s physique – and his manhood, _nom de nom_! 

Taking advantage of his virginity, she had used him as she would and felt empowered because of it. Of course it was reciprocal; she had watched him come apart underneath her. The change in dynamic had done her good and she had experienced for the first time the joy married love could bring. 

She wished he’d stayed in bed with her, but suspected old habits die hard with him – still, they had tonight and all the nights. 

Nurse came in telling a tale that Kylo had been feeding Louis beer. On inquiry, she learned Kylo had gone into the nursery and taken charge of Louis. As she washed and dressed, the tale grew in the telling, but she heard nothing to disturb her, rather it warmed her heart to think Kylo had responded with affection to another man’s child. 

Nurse’s shrewd old eyes were constantly upon her, assessing whether her new husband had proven satisfactory. What she saw apparently satisfied her and she left Nurse’s hands with a blessing. 

Her lord had long gone, and in charming, broken English, she asked William for her breakfast. Establishing William’s status in the household, she told him they must go over the list of servants and combine the two households. 

William’s heart sank and he realised his days of dominating the household were over. He was not deceived; those soft looks hid a spine of steel he knew. Also, she had her intimidating husband backing her, who might sentimentally bounce babies on his knee, but who would surely hang him high if he crossed her. 

She took a dainty bite of the bread put before her and chewed and swallowed, she then placed the rest of it back on the platter and made inquiry as to where it had come from. Upon his answer, she announced she would accompany him to the kitchens. 

+++ 

He returned to the house to be greeted by his wife, a touch of pink in her cheeks and a self-conscious look as she gave him her hand to kiss. 

Then she was speaking of Louis, and servants, and food, and all things domestic, while he watched her pretty pink lips move and mourned that she had hidden her hair under some sort of headdress. He suddenly moved forward, tossed her over his shoulder and strode toward their room, servants flattening themselves against walls to get out of his way. 

Once he had put her down in their room, he wasn’t sure how to go on – he knew what he wanted, but wasn’t sure how to go about getting it. Fortunately, his wife obliged him, casting herself into his arms and kissing him with fervour. She then unfastened his sword belt and trousers and rode him hard, skirt and petticoats rucked up around her hips. As he smoothed her clothes and pulled her against his breast, he had the first inkling of how Anakin truly felt about Padme, to the extent he was prepared to kill on a large scale when the french king had publicly shamed her and taken what was rightfully hers. 

As he peppered kisses onto his wife’s hair, whispering his love for her as they lay together in the afterglow, his hindbrain was detachedly working out how to leave France in such a way to satisfy his own subjects and secure her possessions in perpetuity. He hoped not to fight, but if he had to, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

That would be diplomatically conveyed to the Dauphin by the embassy he would assemble.


	14. Chapter 14

They stayed in France two and a half years. 

He must have gotten her pregnant that first night, because nine months later she gave birth to their son. He allowed himself a little swagger in front of Finn and Dopheld over this when he learned she was with child – until she went into labour. The birth of their first child brought home to him how afraid he was to lose her. 

As he paced up and down, Finn and Dopheld pacing up and down with him, he vowed never to touch her again and risk his happiness, white faced with worry. Rey allowed him a month to keep his vow, while she recovered from the birth of Henri, and then ravished him. Three more children followed, and he got used to a certain predatory look she wore when she moved past her first trimesters and to put himself at her service. 

He had bought her two spaniels, which she named Beau and Jeanne, and when the negotiations with the Dauphin stalled early on, he had his own dogs brought over. This hinted at permanency of tenure to observers at the French court, and when he moved wife, children, bag and baggage into a larger residence, they were sure of it. Talks resumed. 

Knowing of his celibate Archbishop’s scandalised prurience over all matters sexual; he decided to make something happen on Dopheld’s behalf. Writing to his priest, he hinted at the unnatural sexual practices of Paige’s husband which had caused her to flee from him. Of course, he couldn’t swear to it, but this was what he had inferred. Oh, and he was a secret Lollard. 

As he anticipated, his Archbishop leapt into action and the husband was hauled in before an ecclesiastical court. Clearly, there had been something debased in his treatment of Paige as he squirmed and stammered under the Archbishop’s fanatical eye. A search was made of his dwelling and, indeed, papers linking him to Lollardy were found, hidden along with drawings depicting unspeakable perversions. 

The Archbishop could not write or speak of these matters to him, knowing him to be a most chaste and Christian prince, but he had investigated the case himself with the help of the Lord and the large shield of faith. Judgment was now passed and the lady’s marriage annulled – she was free to marry whomever she chose. 

When he gave the news to Dopheld, the man fought back tears and tightly embraced him swearing loyalty to him unto his dying breath – he married Paige a few days later. At last, they could come to court as man and wife. 

Finn brought his wife and children over and there was a definite feel of an English court being set up to rival the french one - Rey proving adept as queen and political hostess. 

He noticed his home was better kept, he was better kept and the food he ate was of a high standard – William having retired from his service early in his marriage. He was a little surprised to hear William had been cheating him, but his wife said it was an established fact. 

William had been correct in his assumption, it only needed my lady to tell the king something was so and it was accepted without question. 

Beyond advising William never to be in the same country as him and not awarding an annuity for past service, he left it at that. 

He was as jealous and possessive as she had supposed. Of course, it was necessary that she had her hand kissed by visitors to their court, but this was only permissible if he was standing at her side, hand on the hilt of his sword, scowling. 

She was carefully instructed by him, she must never receive a man anywhere but in a public chamber, and no hands but his must touch her if she needed to be lifted up or carried. Coquettishly, she demurred, but he simply shrugged and said she must do as she wished and he would lay her dead lovers before her feet. 

One look at his set face convinced her he had taken her at her word, and she had a job to cajole and convince him she had not been serious. Secretly, though, her heart sang – he had not changed, he was truly hers. 

The treaty was finally sealed between himself and the french king, the Dauphin acting as intermediary, and half the money he had demanded for the ransoming of France paid. He moved his court closer to Calais, but then there was treachery and he was attacked moving his army. 

He led a failed cavalry charge, his helmet adorned with a gold coronet and his coat of arms making him easily identifiable. The French followed en masse, to be met by an arrow storm fired over a high hedge. He fell on the rest. 

Whoever had advised the Dauphin to take such a foolish action ought to have been hung by their thumbs in a public place. It would take two generations to restore the Armagnac party. Meanwhile, Burgundy was ascendant. 

He now toughened his stance. The rest of the money must be paid before he moved again. He would not hand Harfleur over until his army had disembarked in England, and he was keeping Calais. Oh, and he was in no hurry to leave. Why would he, his wife being french? Rey backed his position, visceral concern over her children’s future prosperity and well-being trumping every other loyalty. 

Three months later the rest was paid, bankrupting the french exchequer and ensuring he and his son would not have to worry about finances as long as they practiced prudent fiscal management. 

He emptied Harfleur before his army embarked. English merchant ships came with a full moon. Men and horses embarked and the fortress, the foundations undermined and packed with gunpowder, blown up. 

The message was clear: he was a loyal ally, but a determined and implacable enemy. 

+++ 

He began to plan for the embarkation of his household to England, assuming and judging it needful that his wife would go ahead with their children and the household. 

He confided his plan to her, with the assurance, “Do not worry, sweetheart, we will not be separated long.” 

“My lord, we will not be separated at all.” 

He eyed her uneasily. 

“Sweetheart, do you not see how needful it is that I send you and our children and people first, providing a rearguard for your protection?” 

“Assuredly, my lord, but you misunderstand.” 

A feeling of relief washed over him, for a moment he had thought she was going to defy him. 

“I see with clarity our children and the household must go ahead and be settled in our new home. I meant only that my place is by your side, and that is where I intend to remain.” 

“Sweetheart, I am your servant in all things, but in this matter I will be obeyed. You will sail to England with our children and the household, and I will follow shortly.” 

A stubborn look manifested itself on her face, one which he dreaded. 

“M’sieur, I tell you I will not.” 

Her use of m’sieur ought to have warned him to proceed cautiously, however, he blundered on – anxiety for her safety overriding common caution. 

His tone hardened, “Madame, I tell you that you shall. You are my responsibility and also subject to me. Do you not know I can order you in whatever I wish?” 

His wife was now sat very straight in her chair – in manner rather like a carved wooden effigy. 

“It is fortunate then, m’sieur that I am French and subject to the king of France and the Dauphin. You threaten me with _force majeure_? To that I say bah!” 

A muscle under his left eye twitched. 

She now stood, an expression of severity on her face. 

“M’sieur, permit me to tell you your manners find no favour with me. I find myself reluctant to share a bed with you tonight, and who knows for how many nights? Which is unfortunate as I am these days needy for the comfort of your body, as you well know.” 

She pressed her hands against her stomach to show the unmistakable sign that she was pregnant – in fact in her fifth month, when she was typically demanding of him carnally. 

“Still, one must accustom oneself, or perhaps find a more amenable chevalier to provide me with comfort – perhaps when you banish me, alone, to the English court?” 

At this pronouncement he actually growled at her. 

She raised her brows at him and swept from the room. 

He stood there, jaw working in a mannerism peculiar to him, and then ordered that her quarters were to be sealed off with only females allowed through the cordon. 

He slept outside her door that night with a drawn sword and his dogs. 

The next morning he was permitted an audience with her, and found her still in her robe, hair brushed and gleaming, falling to below her waist. He swallowed hard at the sight of her loveliness and grovelled. 

“Madame, I believe I was uncouth yesterday and not mindful of your condition. I wish to apologise and say that, of course, you will remain by my side and we will journey to England together.” 

“My lord, he noted with some relief she was subjecting herself to him once more, I forgive you your brutal treatment of me and will _try_ to forget that you sought to part us.” 

He stood there, a blunt instrument rendered powerless in the face of her soft femininity and his devotion. 

“Did you mean it, he blurted out, that you would take another and put him in place of me?” 

He winced at how needy he sounded. 

She was walking toward him, reaching up to stroke one of his ears, he leaned into her caress. 

“Where is the man who could compare to you?” she spoke softly, drawing a finger gently over his lips. 

“I tell you truly, he does not exist, she was unbuckling his sword belt, there is only you - my husband and my lover.” 

She took his weapons and laid them on a table. 

She walked back toward him and stopped short, loosening the girdle fastening her robe. His eyes were watchful of her movements, as keen as any hawk’s. The robe parted and slid down her arms to pool at her feet. She was naked, belly and breasts visibly swollen with the child she carried within her – his child, the gold chain and ring cradled safe between her breasts. 

She was speaking once more. 

“If you wish, you may touch me. If you yearn for me as I yearn for you, you may do much more.” 

He licked his lips and pulled her to him, ravenous for her touch and the feel of her under his hands... 

She lay in his arms, well satisfied with their mating, a soft and fragrant armful. One of his hands was wound in her hair, anchoring him to her. 

He knew it was said of him that he was pussy whipped. He did not care, they knew nothing. If they spent even one night with her they would be spoilt for all other women. 

The ramifications of that thought caused his grip on her to tighten. She stirred in his arms, her fingers digging into his flank. He caught a murmured ‘husband’ and his breast swelled with pride of possession. He picked up his train of thought. 

Yes, to capture a queen was a way to power; Plutt and Isabeau were proof of that. He would set a close guard on her when they returned to England, keep careful watch over her. If any dared to approach her, try to take what was his... 

His hands must have convulsed and gripped her roughly, waking her up. 

“Is my lord still unsatisfied?” her voice was soft with sleep. 

She raised herself up from his chest where she had lain. Reaching for his length, her hand beginning to squeeze and languidly pump him. 

He was about to protest and pull her down beside him, when her lips closed around his penis. He sagged back on his pillows; eyes rolling into the back of his head all thoughts of killing forgotten as she pleasured him. 

+++ 

He released all the french prisoners on receipt of their ransoms, save Charles de Orleans. He would never release him; it suited him to see France unsettled - Burgundy against the crown and no counterbalance in Orleans. 

Charles Dameron returned to France and claimed his estates, beginning negotiations over the lapsed dukedom. 

Louis he had bonded with that first morning and he was as dear and precious to him as his own sons – in fact he made no distinction – and his love was reciprocated. He settled a fine estate on Louis and an earldom, more than he would have had in France being a second son. Anyway, Roche-Guyon was no more, he had casually let slip the means to bring down its walls to both Boucicaut and d’Albret. Hux had fallen with its walls. Louis married a daughter of Finn. 

He fought no more wars – except with his two daughters – who he had determined would remain unmarried virgins. Shouting and slammed doors became a feature of his home life but he would not give in. No man was fit for his daughters, they would stay safely in his care, precious objects for him to cherish. His wife kept her counsel. 

Jacqueline married first. A handsome young man dared to accost him and ask for her hand. He scowled, he bellowed, he put his hand on the hilt of his sword, he towered over him. The young man turned pale, but persisted. He paused, wondering at it. Was his wife advising the youth before him? He gave consent – eventually. 

Charmaine was easier to let go as Jacqueline had provided him with his first grandchild. He huffed and puffed and didn’t make it easy, but he liked being _Grandpere_ and allowed himself another weak moment – eventually. 

His eldest son was like him. There was no woman for a long time and then one day he found her – a pretty Frenchwoman who had come to serve his mother. She was everything to him. Ren recognised the expression in his son’s eyes and gave his consent, even though she had no status to speak of. 

His youngest, Arthur, had his mother’s heart. He married a daughter of Dopheld. 

Once one grandchild came, the others came thick and fast. He moaned that he’d married his children off to get shot of them, but now they were back with _their_ children to ruin the peace of his old age. He looked very well with his supposed dish of bitter herbs. 

Every now and again he was asked by a wide eyed admirer about the battles he had fought, (and won), and which he considered his greatest triumph. 

On these occasions he would take his wife’s hand and say persuading her to marry him was his greatest triumph, and his sweetest victory.


End file.
